The Price of Art

Once my teacher he asked me so rare
Have i ever seen art so sure to end in tears,
And yet it seems hopeless to avert ye stare.

With heart shuddering all aflutter,
Eyes moist with a tragedy so morose
It causes pain, and yet never would ye dare

To look away to ignore to leave such beauty unseen,
For the pain that comes from a tragedy so poetic,
Would hurt no more than ye day to day fear.

And i responded to my teacher beloved,
With a question as an answer to his indisputable query.
For certain questions can only be done justice with another similar inquiry.

I asked him oh dear teacher who planted this seed of thought inside me,
Have you ever created art so delicate and pure,
Hoping to impress and inspire humanity.

Poured near all of thy heart inside it,
And then been stabbed with the utmost lack of recognition.
Have you ever felt the pain from so dire an err by thy society.

And this teacher of mine he replied,
For generations, art has been created by skilled masters of old.
These people lived like me or you, abandoned in the cold,

They fought through relentless tests of life and embraced the pain,
And in doing so were able to create art that reflected their suffering.
They found honour and comfort in that injustice of old,

As should you my dear disciple and son,
For those artists art thine ancestors and none,
Gave up in absence of esteem, nor did they abide by what they were told.

For if they had ever followed what was said to be right,
And had not chose to turn a blind eye upon what they felt was fair,
There never would've been art that moves so many of us today.