My child doesn't jump to images
He rummages one or two of his taste

To much degree. Yesterday he found
A piece of a beautiful deer,

Running upward the hill
Ignorant of water, rushhing high.

Creeping to me , that night,
Under the warm blanket
He put up in a surprising way:
Can we run without moving
And still reach the desired place?
Why is that deer there
So nonchalant, though no progress?
Closer to him I did say:
Life is about movement
But paintings cheat us in such a way
That we fall into a ditch of beauty
And forget rhythm of the clock..