Bosch's Garden of Earthly Delights

And when O Master daubed the garden
With joy and blush and lusty gaze
The eyes of God seduced in itself
With the intent He had for Adam and Eve
I knew the heaven that O Master painted
Too surreal for the Earthly Delights
Has got to go wrong somewhere
I secretly planted fear in Eve's hidden eyes.

When O Master moved to the central canvas
He filled it up with trees and fruits and luring sights
The humans all naked and captivating
Were joyous and fetching with no consequences
I saw the dances, I saw the loves, I saw the endearments, I saw no blush
I saw an earmarked freedom prevailing
In the absence of any God or Devil
The humans were at best in their co-living spaces
Playfully flirting with all existences.
There was no death, or any dearth of benison
The sun shined bright, all day and night
And love was made in full sight
And in unison.

Still carrying the blush in my bristles
I picked up on the darker side of pallette
And soon began a game on
The right side of the canvas' panel.
It was horrific, gruesome, and imbecile
What I was made to paint now had no good thrill
O Master! O Master! Why did you do?
That's how the God wish, mate.
What God O Master? Who his own creation blew?
A sadist one, O Master states.

They did no wrong, they got nothing to do else
Why are they undergoing this horrendous treatment?
If you had your share of pleasure, you've got to repent
That's the whole game of existence.

Who decides what pleasure is moral or immoral
That lust must be immobile, who decides?
If one isn't supposed to indulge in earthly pleasure
Why then have the varied genitiles?
What then of the other sins that need consequences
The killings and unkindness, manipulation and stealths?
Where shall one suffer the punishment for them
If the hell would be full for just doing a simple thing?

The greatest sin of all is seeking the pleasure
From the fruits and resources available on the earth
The rest of actions are a mere task
Borne out of the human subconscious.
Pleasure needs taming, pleasure is to be bound
Pleasure is not we live for
Pleasure got to be silenced, it must not sound.
Scream you rather, shriek in pain
Call out loud, call the God's name
Let the God know that you need Him most
But on seeking pleasure, you forget him
And you your own pride boast.

What then are you doing? — Sorry O Master for what I say.
But ain't you also seeking pleasure, somehow in your own way?
Of painting and no paining, of being prideful of your art
Are you not then obviously, not missing the God?

Artists' delight is internal, it remains a fantasy, dear mate
We are helpless in what we do, we repent already for our sake
The art got no bound, the art is unearthly but remains on ground.
And yet we make the pride of God, suffer somewhere in different states
The head of Master, the God of all Delights
When seeing small artists boasting in their pride
Remains in dilemma for what to say
As the artist will anyway suffer for as he remains.