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How deep the lines of life remain

When hands are stilled by time.

 

An artistís brush, capable of expressing

The soul of life, relinquishes its fibers

To a myriad canvases in its process of creation

Each painting testimony to its existence.

The artist, the source of creativity,

Remains untouched by time.

 

The empty hand lies open,

Discarded like a brush. 


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