He painted a picture on a windy day,
The wind blew sheets around the park.
Waves of the ocean danced a ballet,
Each time creating arch.
He painted a picture on a windy day,
The tree leaned towards ground.
A little ray of sunshine played its game,
Trying to get out of the cloud.
He painted a picture on a windy day,
But the easel stood without moving.
Three legs of it stood firmly and obeyed,
Holding paper like a mother holding newborn baby.
He painted a picture on a windy day,
But he didn’t want to be an artist.
There was no desire to draw at all,
But the brush was already touched.