'Sometimes the best art is created in simplicity,' this is a permanent idea that guides culture and creation. Either be it art, food, language or entertainment, plainness and lucidity make up the framework which brings out the flavour and colour of any aspect twofold. Taking inspiration from paintings and modern photography which feature the terrible state of disreputableness along with sublime calmness in their grey spaces; this poem is a commentary on the significance of white walls in a gallery, the white light going through a prism and the whiteness of existence untainted. Even though its clarity is neglected and experimented upon, white is the essence of our aesthetics and end.
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I saw a teahouse,
among white cherry blossoms on my way to death.
There were only shadows,
among the lilies and porcelain teacup sets.
The empty spaces were coloured
with the blinding spark of warmth.
Is this the place where man rests
before his journey to God?
I left the teahouse with a shadow,
treading on the same path as me.
We left our colours behind and
laid our souls bare and clean.
Untainted and pure, like the moon on a black sky,
the beginning of our end was near,
Through triumphing destinies and departed lives
The white light dazzled and reappeared.
There was comfort, there was peace,
the white spaces showed me my strange longings and quaint fancies.
With this breath of death, I was more alive than before.
The bitter raging storm of existence was forgotten,
As I stand raptured with the sight in front of me.
Among these tiny spaces with elegant touches of life,
I wonder, why was there disregard for the colours that painted our lives?