As a child, one face kept appearing to me in my dreams and visions.
I knew this face was not just any face, but a face of somebody who could open people’s hearts to be the best they can be.
A face that could spread love, peace and unity.

Perhaps I wanted to catch it.
Perhaps not.
But one morning I wanted to paint the wings –
Too late – they flew away.
I wanted to paint a flower –
Too late – it withered.

That night the rain was running after me.
Each drop of rain showed one and the same face,
And it was everywhere.

I wrung out the love to make the red.
I wrung out the stumps to make the brown.
I wrung out the trust to make the yellow.
I wrung out my own eyes to make the blue.
I wrung out the leaves to make the green.
I wrung out the nightly pain to make the black.
I wrung out my grandmother’s hair to make the gray.
I wrung out the truth to make the white.

Today I want to paint God’s face –
It’s not too late.
IT’S NOT TOO LATE.