The Poem, The Painting Of Life Poem by Mohammad Younus

We begin as blank as
the quiet morning light—
until the Infinite spills
its colors into us:
golden joy filling
the empty spaces of life,
deep blue longing
laid gently into time.
Each moment paints its own hue—
the soft purple of first memories,
the green pulse of searching,
the quiet yellow where wisdom waits,
mercy thick and slow like honey.
Even sorrow stains the canvas—
not in quick strokes,
but spreading slowly,
like watermarks beneath eternity's skin—
a dusky ache that,
when held to light,
becomes stained-glass prayers.
Even dull grays have their place—
the ash of dying stars,
the mist of forgotten names—
turning us into gold,
alchemists of longing,
changing dust into light.
Some colors come softly:
the silver shimmer of a soul
finding its way home,
the warm gold of sharing
bread and breath,
the turquoise flash of memory—
small fish gliding through the dark.
Others arrive boldly:
the red clay of letting go,
the black grit of rising up,
sinking deep into the bone,
sacred and true.
We wear time's colors
like a holy story.
At birth,
the soft pink glow of beginning;
at the end,
the pearl-white hush of returning—
each shade a thread in the Eternal's tapestry:
here, the green of starting anew,
there, the deep red of doors
left open for wanderers.
Can you see
how the storm's deep blue cry
echoes in the bones of those
who have danced in the rain?
How the moon's quiet white whisper
lingers in souls that turn toward its light?
Even emptiness holds color—
where love once burned bright,
there are not just shadows,
but deep blue wells,
vast enough to swallow the stars.
We are a living mosaic of borrowed holiness:
the bright red of a burning bush,
the silver hush of dawn's first breath,
your mother's voice—
a song wrapped in blue silk.
We carry the quiet purple
of forever in our throats,
the red pulse of creation in our veins—
a masterpiece of all we have touched,
and all that has touched us.
When the final stroke is placed,
we will not be just one color,
but a burst of rainbows—
a song of all we have been:
the black of surrender,
the white of remembering,
and that unnamed, shining gold
that never fades.
Your life is soaked in the divine.
Wild and unafraid,
it will teach you this:
You are but a pen in His hands,
a divine pen, writing His own poem,
or a sacred brush, filling colors in His painting.
Yet you are none but the writer of your own poem,
none but the artist of your own masterpiece.

— MyKoul