In the silent halls where shadows play,
An artist’s soul in colors lay,
Each stroke, a whisper, a gentle sway,
A timeless dance in hues of gray.

The canvas speaks in tones so mild,
A language pure, serene, and wild,
Echoes of a heart beguiled,
By dreams and visions, undefiled.

Sculptures stand in silent grace,
Capturing time, a fleeting trace,
Beauty etched in every space,
A testament to the human race.

In galleries where light refrains,
From speaking loud, it softly claims,
The essence of our joys and pains,
Immortalized in art’s vast plains.