Obaba Museum

Sober reflection to the time we knew not art,
Yes the tiny strokes of the artist steadily marking our heart shaped canvas
As I regard the vacuum which hitherto housed a magnificent piece
or better still the acrylic paint spread on canvas,
I realize the beauty I once beheld was nothing but illusion,
As the smokescreen clears,
Springs of overflowing wine bursts forth filling up cups and gourds.
The flow is premium and a bit striking,
This isn’t your regular taste it is the perfect brew of ‘vin rouge’.

Suddenly Ini’s question brings me closer home

‘Wise one, is it true that time heals our hurts?’

‘My dear daughter’, I reply

‘Does time really heal, or we simply learn to live with pain?…’