Dear Van Gogh
The tarnished scrapes and spatters tainted upon the empty canvas
Holds aching tales of an unremembered artist; of things he never talked about,
Things he refused to speak of under any circumstances.
Are you a weary traveler looking for a home upon deserted corridors?
Or a devotee seeking for the truth in God's mysterious exertions of despair?
No one knew; not paying any heed to the man wandering about the wheat-fields
And after a while, when the elation of curiosity wore off the crowd's shoulder
They barely remembered his brushstrokes or what colors he would paint the sky,
If not blue.
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But the tales stayed, and they grew like unborn wildfires
Upon his pale fingertips—with every color he poured onto the canvas
Resembled his unearthed agony – transforming terror into beauty
Walking over the deadening skins of a moth, rebirthing as a butterfly.
"Dear Van Gogh, like an amateur artist failing to give his painting
Just the right shades of lilac upon the night-sky,
You, too, failed to manifest your own being.
Calling them out in nuances of grief, in hopes of being known for once, if not forever.
Yet the weight of existence crumbled upon your chest, nevertheless.
You see, when you live through life long enough
Only to find its gloom downpouring over your shoulder,
You tend to break every once in a while–it happens to people.
Yet it was the starry, starry nights that kept the dreams alive of hundreds,
Of you, and me, and many more restless silhouettes hiding beneath the surface.
The remembrance of you shall live through ages, if not exactly at a timeline
Of when you walked about this solitary earth."
Maliha Tribhu often finds herself sitting in a corner amidst the crowd, only to observe them and turn them into unsung poetry.
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