Plaster of Paris

The artist has sullied his dark hands
As they shine on mother’s whiteness.
Her many arms are stubs in reverse
With weapons yet to be put in them.
Her fierce tiger is making in a corner.
But a demon is yet to be conceived.

In plaster of paris, good takes shape
Earlier to mould and shape than evil
With its several shades and tonalities
So difficult to create in white purity.

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