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  • Writer's pictureMaggie Bakir


Updated: Nov 23, 2021

Boom! He suddenly appears at the door with no shame

With a subtle smile on his face, a bag of colours in his hand

A painting of my favourite colours

A colourful rhyme of a warm Christmas

Red and pink on the lips, white smiles in bliss

Old ones, young ones holding onto their gifts

The artist smiles watching his masterpiece

He painted my life beautifully with grace,

Everything I offer in return with gratitude,

The artist rejects with a polite attitude;

“I was just passing by,

And this is a moment to fortify!

Enjoy it, love it and look after it well

Someday it will lose its charm, I can foretell

Next time I’ll bring my new colours, I can heal as well”

Before he leaves, I ask

“When are you coming back?”

He signs the painting, smiles and whispers:

“I just pass by…coming back is not my thing”

Alas, he goes!

The years pass,

After a long day of many drinks and a pub crawl,

I look at that same painting hanging on my wall,

Not as bright as before,

Not as colourful as before

“Hey! Some colours are missing!

Most of my favourite ones!”

With angst and despair, in vain

I try to remember the stupid artist’s name

After all, he is the one to blame,

Who once painted a masterpiece,

Now a blurry scrap; erased faces, favourite parts missing

That masterpiece was meant to stay, not fade away

Try to find his name, try to remember the day,

Boom! He suddenly appears at the door with no shame

With a subtle smile on his face, a bag of colours in his hand

At this stage, after all my temper will not tame;

I growl “oh another visit unplanned!”

“I come back to heal” he says showing me the colours

In shock, I shout out all the pain: “Those fucking colours are not the same!”

He starts adding new tones , all I see is unknowns,

He smiles and whispers softly “ Trust me, it will be a nice one”

How can it be a masterpiece if all my favourite colours are missing!

He calmly says “Patience , wait till I finish. It will be another masterpiece!”

His talent shines through,

Those vibrant colours are not the same, but still in harmony somehow,

The new faces he paints feel somehow homie.

It’s not the same masterpiece but it has something touching.

The artist keeps painting, I keep watching,

I ask his name again, he drops his brush, takes a grand bow,

He whispers “ Time – People always forget somehow”

This painting is not looking bad but I still miss what I had,

As he finishes his new masterpiece, I add:

“I am glad I haven’t paid you a penny colour mage”

Time responds “Well, everyone pays me by age!”

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