The Portrait Of A Lady

Her hands weaved the magic,
Not with the wand but with a brush,
With using words laconic,
The fingers moved, without a hush.

Slowly, the brushed touched the paint,
Transforming her figment of imagination onto the canvass,
Her smiling sober face reminded me of a saint,
As she stood on the dais.

With eyes, to her, god didn’t grant,
With every stroke that created a masterpiece, none so great,
She said,
Sometimes life doesn’t give you what you want,
Coz it wants to give you something better.