You had an inextinguishable magic;
In your fingers.
There was a skill in your strokes,
In your lines.
There was an aptness in your depictions,
A disposition to suit all my moods.
I was on cloud nine when you volunteered,
To sketch life into my poems.
Where have you lost yourself?
Let’s go pick up your pieces.
If you are still listening to me,
Dear natural composer,
Wake up from your slumber,
My poetry needs some colouring,
The winter is receding,
The love month is upon us,
This is the time we should lock fingers,
And manufacture masterpieces.
I wish I had your permission,
To reveal your name to the world,
Until you decide to show up,
We all know you as a ‘shy artist’.
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