A canvas should contain
The moon ascending from behind the mountains of Nepal
Or the sun rising,
Or flying birds, or a river running down the hills
And blue waters, or patches of clouds in the sky
Or a garden where buds bloom into countless colors,
But, what I find is
An old woman filling a pipe with tobacco, her blanched hair, the color of smoke that snakes its way out of the pipe,
Her hands like thin paper, her eyes like layers of hot milk, coughing continuously,
A fallen tree, a stranger who has lost his route,
Forsaken youths, wailing, unkempt hair, broken vaginas
Why is this the canvas that I see,
After all the color is the same,
The brush is the same, the same is the painter
The same is the material, everything is the same?
The canvas is wounded,
It bleeds somewhere,
The wounded is the art.
When the art is wounded,
Both trust and hope dies
Where heart does pour itself,
Pours feelings and emotions.
I am shocked to see
Why the colors on canvas
Look so bizarre,
Why the colors are wounded!
I wonder if my country did not fall on the canvas!
I wonder if my country is a wounded canvas
Or the wounded canvas is my country!
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