A canvas- as empty as can be-
Stood alone in a corner.
Thirsty, it waited to get drenched in vibrant colors.
A few brushes were scattered on the ground,
The paints had dried away;
A long lost dripping sound.

Twenty years or so they say.

A sound of a rusty lock crack-open.
There she was-
A lady with a stick slowly moved across the room.
She sat down on the dust and sand
Her bare fingers drew a few strokes in the air
As she slowly picked up the empty canvas with her hand.

Twenty years or so they say.

Memories flood in.
How mesmerized the people used to get by those hues!
Beguiled, they would stare at them for hours!
Oh! how she missed those days.
"Why did she give up?" You'd ask.
Retinoblastoma.
It was difficult for her when she lost her sight.
There wasn't a single night
When her canvas would not summon her.
But a fierce lady lived within,
Loss of sight wasn't a big thing-
The empty canvas got its wishes.

Twenty years until now.

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