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The first artist

Sometimes I think about the first artist
Who thought about taking a stone in his hand
And carving every leaf that falls on the ground
The first artist who was inspired by the rains
Who was inspired by the life around him
Who felt that innate connection with the soul of this universe
I think about the feeling that prompted him to connect with a withering flower
What allowed him to see beauty in those drying petals
In those colours around him that changed with every season
I wonder about the scent of fresh air he might have inhaled,
I wonder what he felt about the stars above his head
What he thought about this hide and seek of day and night,
I wonder how he construed the phases of moon,
The beauty of the sky at twilight
Simply beautiful!


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