MY FINE ART


Come pumpkins,
Sit down and listen well
There is this art that I love
Typsyjaja has his own art
He loves it when he handles his brush
The brush is his slave
It dances to do his bid.
Typsyjaja has his art so do I.
Let me tell you of my own art
Let it boil like the sea did
When Grendel dragged his mutilated body
Body into the sea.
Reduce the water
Let the fine dust feel its anger
Turn it gently but firmly
You might have to
Bring it down for a while
Continue your turning
Like the way Typsyjaja will do
When trying to make a forceful birth of
colour
Let it feel the anger once more
And the fine dust if need be
Make a serious mixture
You need to see the joy
That flows through my heart
When my art is done
And ready to be devoured
This my art I love.
Pumpkins
Typsyjaja’s art is fine art
Mine is the art of making Amala.

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