They are not folded faded paintings on the wooden cupboard
They are peeping at us through panes of centuries
The elegant men and women under the cool shades
Of huge trees, the flocks of sheep
Wandering over the slops
Like balls of pure wool
The flute of the shepherd elongated by
The lens of time

Those sprawling lawns
Over which space reclines
Setting mind in calm repose
Though before us
They are astronomical distances of light years
Away form us
They are surely tired and weather-beaten
In their everlasting journey
Those figures in colours
Those and those on stones and sounds
Are monsters of art let loose
On the omnivorous dinosaur of time

The hand of art
Is the womb of creation
And creation is eternal invasion on time-
-Seshendra Sharma-