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The Sculptor

By Diya Sood


To touch a soul.

What must it feel like?

It seems like some are tainted.

Twisted.

Tortured.

Agonized, even.

When does it end?


I'm no master.

Not a sculptor, most definitely.

No Michelangelo.

Unaware we roam.

Trying,

Tumbling,

Rolling down,

Falling away from grace

And yet –

Thriving.


The race continues,

The clock ticks,

And the road continues all until it ends.

All of it ends.

A dramatic film roll is out of time.

Books with silly notes and scribbles, all worth everything, and now yet, nothing.

It ends.





I said I'm no master.

No sculptor.

Unaware we roam certainly,

until we see a faint light.

Perhaps, it should be light.

Should it not?

And finally,

At the judgment,

But, do we realize —


To touch a soul,

Is merely nothing

Until you've been through it all.

The tumbling.

The falling.

And so –

Forget not,

For even the maestro,

Tainted the beings with shades of dark.

Gave them shadows,

To keep the secrets of the past.



By Diya Sood




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