He plays the Lyre of all our lives – Artists, a mere string or two do strum.
Mocking another’s creation by duplicating and tampering with the notes, O Child,
is the mocking, the thwarting, of God’s own divine hum;
and though mere mortals may falter, He always does recognise – the true, from the false song.
In wily wisps of curling green, envy will, now and then, reveal her serpentine face;
Born to trick and cause mischief, she never will care for pain and disgrace.
Let her then slither slyly past you, fear not – let take her fill of fallen fruit,
e’en as her nape slides past today from His ever swinging sword of Justice.
Art is born in one’s heart; nurtured by the soul of which there never can be two.
Remember that Imitations are what they are, O Child, for they never hold true!
“Be humbled in the knowledge of your uniqueness” He whispers to my broken heart,
“Imitations will cease like transient illusions but you, will never cease to be you!”
© Isha Garg