He sleeps on the rocks,
and collects the gold from sun,
he sleeps on the sand,
and collects the silver from moon.
He sits under a hut,
and gathers the diamonds from rain,
he sits within an attic,
and paints the colourlessness of breeze.
The sparks of chimera flows in his mind.
The plethora of ink flows in his blood.
He traps the serendipity,
in the cages of exemptions.
He hums the melancholy,
in the farms of seclusions.
He sits in the backyard,
and writes the dryness of tears.
He sits in the courtyard,
and scribbles the “this that” for years.
He is filthy with the dust of pasts,
he is filthy with the rust of pasts.
He is a filthy man.
He is an artist.