.
It’s a medley of colours smeared
of ideas, ensconced in the inmost layers of the mind,
hanging on to the tip of the brush for long and
dropped and splattered in a dream.
Who knows
If the infinities at the centres of circles
and emotional upsurges in the haphazard strokes
betoken
lust or infatuation
love or hatred
spirit or lifelessness…?
Interpretations … unintelligible
Ambiguities … endless.
The figure drawn
in the stillness of the silent shadow,
was hanging for long by the tip of the nib
when deep within heart there was an upheaval of unrest,
and thoughts billowed like a restless sea
and were caught in a clueless tangle …
Who could say
if it is grace or grief that face betokens
when it looks different every time you look at it.
Therein that picture
all strokes stretch without end or epoch
like my thoughts;
lines are in the look out for a direction
like my dreams;
and all images dissolve into nothingness
like death.
The absurd painting hanging on to the wall in my room
is just like me… my facsimile.
.
అనువాదలహరి 
వ్యాఖ్యానించండి