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In every stroke, a stillness stays—
The hush of hands that wait, not chase.
This is the art of becoming still,
Where silence forms the artist’s will.
It does not beg for hurried eyes—
It waits, like dusk, to mystify.
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In every stroke, a stillness stays—
The hush of hands that wait, not chase.
This is the art of becoming still,
Where silence forms the artist’s will.
It does not beg for hurried eyes—
It waits, like dusk, to mystify.