She kept looking outside,
Through that big french window.
She could see a lot of wind moving the trees,
Some sand in the air, some gentle tapping on the door.
She looked at the roof,
And at her surroundings.
She inspected the walls around,
The candles, the paintings.
She was comfortable where she was,
A little lost in her thoughts though.
As she slightly shivered in the cold and quiet around,
Cold on the palms, cold on the toes.
But what struck her little bit,
Was that stark reality and thought.
As to how it looked so pretty from the comfort of inside,
That humid, sandy, harsh outside DARK.
Her eyes black kohl laden,
She dreamt but her dreams were black.
She tried to wipe the soot away,
But it stuck there, there in the deep black shack.
She didn’t know how to wipe the colour,
She didn’t know how to keep it,
She knew it had to go but,
The black too dense and bleak-ed.
Next day she did not apply the black,
She put some brown instead.
Surprising as this was,
At day ending, it turned black and dead.
She tried to understand the significance of this black,
A black blacker than black it was.
When finally she understood it (or so she thought),
The purpose of the black was to make the other colours SHOW.