25/10/2025
I linger in my studio, where shadows dance with light,
paint-stained fingers trembling, tracing dreams in the quiet night.
The air hums with echoes of colors yet to blend,
a canvas whispering secrets, my heart’s unbroken mend.
To be an artist is to cradle the world’s soft sighs and screams,
to weave its fleeting joys and sorrows into endless, fragile dreams.
Each brushstroke a confession, each note a tender plea,
each word a fragile vessel, sailing truth across the sea.
We are the stargazers, the sculptors of the soul’s soft clay,
carving beauty from the chaos, chasing night into the day.
In every chord that lingers, in every line that bends,
we pour our hearts’ unspoken, where mortal time transcends.
To artists of the earth scattered beneath the same vast sky,
in city hum or village hush, where restless spirits fly
your courage is a beacon, your passion is a flame,
your art a sacred language, no border can restrain.
So here’s to you, brave dreamers, who bleed in hues and song,
who dare to bare your essence, where fragile hearts belong.
Your creations are our mirrors, reflecting love and pain,
a tapestry of feeling, stitched through sun and rain.
Keep weaving, keep creating, let your spirit never sway,
for the world is brighter, deeper, through the art you give away.
