surreptitiously,
i slide my hands on the red you have painted on the canvass
and try to figure out its shape - hidden by the green
sometime it feels like spring
and sometime, like blood in the battle field
i want to know definitely
what is it i am touching
blood of a bird that died in the spring?
or a red rose, just kissed by the green
you tell me, its modern art
i am allowed to feel what i want
maybe
i want to feel nothing today
and then you tell me -
if that is so,
today, your painting is about nothing
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