footprints




dry old paint scratched from the walls on the floor
with footprints of the painter
he painted the walls of the room
he painted them blue,
he painted them pink,
no body knows what his art is
the pink walls with blue borders
the flawless smoothness, the fineness of his work
and those drops of paint which were dribbling
over the floor
and over the windowpane
his hands and clothes
the big blots of paint
all over them

it was art
art of a child
mistakes of a master
so random, so random
these footprints
makes no sense, have no pattern,
are so haphazard
and yet
beautiful
in their
own way
just like
life is
random
beautiful


.

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