once,
a painter took his brush
but the canvas was too huge
and so was the task to portray

his hands trembled and he dropped
few drops of hues hither and thither
like stain and blemish they hung up

his heart saw the artist abashed
and beat harder and harder
more sad than dutiful

a question slid into the veins
tough task, dear ye?
not all can hold the brush

not all can paint the sun
not all have the eyes
that sees through the burns

dismayed at what he held in his hands
the ability to bring sunshine
on the blank face of canvas

the painter painted a world
a lovelier, better world,
for generations to inspire

although, the stain still hangs there
but it only reminds the onlookers
of what great hands held that brush
once