(The Crank and his muse)
His Canvas, His Clay
Art, as you say, is Love
His Canvas, His Clay
Art, as you say, is Love
Love, as I know thou art.
We are only beings of His making
splashed, spattered, cross hatched.
Love, pours forth in bright red
our sins etched in flowing blood;
Tones of Grey, splashes of Blue,
spaces of White, hurt and Hue.
Formed with a burst of light
Light, we all come from.
A mold, spinning fast on a wheel
cut through in shapes by his fingers.
We become flowers of many patterns
God and Goddesses, of fear and love;
Basked in the Sunlight, baked in Earth,
our lifeless expressions of a million joy's worth.
::Vibin Issac::
