With dark walls, loud voices, and ropes around her arm,

she was caught alone in the conundrum of the calm.

With a colour that cursed the beauty of the night,

she was aware of her inevitable plight.

A painting doesn’t discriminate in colours.

It doesn’t matter if the canvas is black or white.

And if God really is an artist,

who are we question what’s wrong and what’s right?

Chapped lips, closed eyes, and scars decorating her face,

she was lying curled up on the floor, unaware of the prison’s place.

A race outlined as weak and ill-treated,

she was aware of how people like her had been killed and defeated.

But if you peel the crust,

and delve into the truth,

she isn’t locked behind metallic bars.

She never was.

The dark walls and the voices?

They are nothing more than the symbols of society.

The ropes around her arm?

Nothing more than the shackles of their thoughts.

The lines we have drawn,

the prejudices we have allowed to be born,

And the bars of discrimination,

will all be the end of this wonderful creation!

And one day when the Sun will sleep,

the oppressed and oppressors will not be there.

Then, no one would care about the colour of the canvas,

as there will be no one left to care.