Portrait of My Friend


The chalk of colour; I held

like when I was five and before me

a white sheet; I was compelled

to draw a picture so free

of pain and tears,

of bitterness and fears.


A stroke turned two

and became a thousand more;

There was no question who

the face belonged to, for

such freedom a friend can give,

only you, my dear, can conceive.


Stared at the portrait, complete

with colours you blessed me with;

there is no trace of deceit

or lies; but such depth of a myth

telling everlasting tales of something true,

something of faith and love; you.