‘I would now say you must look here,
At the lower of the front where the skin is not clear,
You see someone has tattooed something,
Earlier it was not so much, now it is a priceless thing.’
Curiously I looked at the skin of the lady,
Beneath the navel I could see the design,
That was too rich and royal and as old as good wine.
I couldn’t see the whole tattoo, and seeing my frown,
Gracefully the madam in front of me took off her gown.
The tattoo I at once recognized was of the artist,
The greatest one in town right then, known for his broken wrist.
The style was the same, the signature too,
The colors he used, the brushes two,
All were the same, and I thought,
For the paintings of whom we day and night fought,
At one point of time was poor enough,
To paint on a lady’s body and do other stuff.
‘Why don’t you sell your skin off to me,
Then you can live where everything is free,
‘Cause the money I will give you will be so so much,
You would have free dinners, shopping and lunch.
The lady looked curiously at me,
As if I had done some sin,
Then smiled slightly and from her purse,
Took out a small box of tin,
Handed me a card and wore back her gown,
And rushed away into the busy town.
I opened the card and I got her address,
And soon with her skin the crowd I will address.

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