The First Brush Was the Heart
Before the brush, before the ink,
Before the sculptor paused to think—
There lived a tremble in the chest,
A silent ache, a soul unrest.
No masterpiece began in lines,
Or measured forms, or perfect signs.
It started where the shadows play—
Where feeling swells, then finds its way.
A tear that fell, a breath held tight,
The hush before a storm takes flight.
That spark unseen, that fragile start—
It is the soul, it is the heart.
What use are strokes without a cry?
What worth has art that does not sigh?
A canvas cold, though sharp and clean,
Lacks truth if it has never been.
For art is born of joy or pain,
Of memories that still remain.
Of laughter echoing through time,
Of loss that ink could not define.
So let the colors bleed and burn,
Let marble crack, let rhythms turn.
Let every work expose its fire—
Not crafted just to please, but inspire.
For when the heart begins to speak,
Through trembling hand or artist’s streak—
Then beauty finds its truest part:
A work of love.
A work of heart.
AKSHR
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