The Abstract Identity. Poem by Subrata Ray

Some one writes a novel,
Some one a play,
Some one potters an image,
Molding a lump of clay.

Some one weaves a tapestry,
Some one paints a canvas,
Some one sculptors live impression,
Installing psychic touch.

Someone, someone, someone,
As inmates of nature and the sun,
Takes part in some great One's fun.

Image wrapped ideas take birth,
And with life and sense act on earth,
For nothing wrong and right, -fight,
From the darkness they come,
After allotted hours in darkness glide.