The Sculptor
- hashtagkalakar
- Dec 13, 2023
- 1 min read
Updated: Jan 16, 2024
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
Love!