ART
K. S. NARASIMHA SWAMY
The artist hath no
children; His studio
Is
full of portraits of tiny tots.
And the poet no spouse;
He writes only romantic
and love poems.
The singer is born
destitute.
Though on his lips one
finds
Songs
in praise of the Goddess of Wealth.
The heart of the critic
is the
Veritable garden full of
Ideal pictures, love
poems and sweet melodies.
He is the honey bee not
flower.
The
suffered, the lost and the have-nots-all.
All have become artists
upon this earth.
And their art is but a
millionth part
Of the endowments they
are deprived of.
Only thou could
comprehend this logic.
Then.....whose very
sight blossoms the lotus...
Translated from Kannada
–Dr. C. S. SUNANDANA