Nicolas heard a sad tune
inviting him towards itself.
He is a young artist,
deprived of fame,
who never carved a masterpiece.
The melancholic melody was low
when he followed it.
But the more he went towards it,
the more gloomy the tone got.
He wanted to quench his inquisitiveness.
He never heard such a beauty
in the darkness of life.
He never felt such depth
in the cages of sadness.
And he kept following it.
She was there,
amidst the dark trees
and in utter silence,
to concentrate merely on the tunes
She played with her dusky violin.
No one knew her.
She comes there rarely
and plays her heart,
to sadden any one
who would hear it.
But she always loved her silence,
and the only existence of her and her notes,
which burst a ray of gloom,
to bring sadness on one’s face
and reflect the dark beauty in her tunes.
He adored her, her melodies.
It urged him to capture this moment
on his canvas forever.
He filled his palette with crimson and black shades,
with minute hues of green.
He stroked through his canvas
and brushed her face on it,
which was covered with her deep black locks
and her hazel eyes-
crystal and shiny.
He progressed to draw her lips
dabbed beautifully with crimson,
with the crimson gown she wore,
laced with black crystals and petals.
He drew her-
An alien lady with a face,
depicting a sad event which would take place.
And the notes she played-
which would invite anyone to delve forever in it.
He was on the edge of completing his art piece,
When the melody
went on growing softer,
as if it were to end
and break the sad tranquil it possess.
She stopped playing the violin
and slowly gazed at him,
with black tears which mixed with the kohl of her eye,
trickling down her face.
She now, slowly walked towards him.
His pulse went slow when he saw her arrival.
The more she came closer to him,
the slower his pulse went.
And when she reached for him,
the palette fell from his hand.
The canvas got stuck to the branch of a tree
and he collapsed down,
as if the tune he played
was a lullaby
to make him sleep.
She got him up in her arms
and a tear fell from her eye,
which slowly fell on his face.
But this would not disturb him
as he lives a long sleep.
She flew up
as if she had wings.
Her flight was ecstatic
like an angel
dressed in black.
His piece he left behind-
A perfect replica of the pain
in the moment she lived.
He didn’t knew he was painting his last moments
with the dead angel in his masterpiece.
~~~ Amreen B. Shaikh
2 thoughts on “From Amreen’s Desk- The Masterpiece”
such a sad and beautifully spun tale you’ve written,
loved the imagery as well. anything that involves an Angel
dressed in black has my immediate attention.
Thank you for your appreciation and words. They mean a lot.
Keep reading. More to come every fridays