A Painting In A House On A Desolate Hill

A Painting In A House On A Desolate Hill In a house on a desolate hill, Whose name was but forgotten still, Within a room once full of livery, Hung a painting of great mystery. As I quietly observed this forlorn painting, (Thinking of the long years it froze in waiting, For a curious soul to behold its facade), A shudder of staggering awe wrenched my heart: "Whose gentle brush did this painting yield, That marring Time and Death failed to steal, The very essence it tried to capture, Within so simple an earthly treasure." Held forever on the aging canvas, On a glade before mystical hills of vast, Stood a maiden with smile of Penitence, Her slender finger on lips of silence. This silencing gesture her finger made, That neither Heaven nor Earth, Man nor Fate, Can ever know for whom it was bound, Or what confers its secret so profound. Of this expression I pondered on, As the day's light began to frown, More closely did I view the detail, Lest I miss some craftly hidden tale. The maiden's mien betrayed no sign, Which man of prudence might call benign, And neither was there malice bore, Behind those azure eyes of yore. Yet, despite her coldness, sadness did reign, Which neither powder nor blush could feign, That spark of Life into obscurity, In this soul of marble antiquity. This gentle sorrow puzzled me most, For her attire mirrored no morose, But of a yearning for spring's dawning, And a farewell to winter's passing. For other clues did I search the painting, Yet, no more did I find interesting, Save a dead rose near her bare feet, Its withering petals sung defeat. At that moment, cloying frustration seized me, Was I never to know who might this lady be, Her story forever lost in Time's fathomless dusk, Never to be retrieved from the shadow of the past? "Was she a lady who at last made her peace, With sweet Death or was it Love's lost kiss? Or may be she was a painter's imagery, Being Pygmalion in his lone reverie." As if shunning my restless, hectic mind, A mantle of darkness the room did find, From the lost battle of autumn's sickly sun, Against Night's vampiric phantom lance. A final glimpse did I manage to procure, Of this Lady of Mystery, of Obscure, Her silencing lean finger did I last see, Before blackness enveloped her totally. Thus hung a painting of great mystery, Within a room once full of livery, In a house on a desolate hill, Whose name was but forgotten still. By Boekhtiar bin Borhanuddin (circa 2000) Written December 9th, 2001 © on Dec 09 2001 07:30 AM PST   0 • 10