The Portrait He forbids me from the room, I imagine its beauty. He does not draw often, He claims he draws what he feels. He never uses color, He sketches in charcoal. I stand up and walk into the room, I stand by his shoulder, eager. I recognize it, but I do not know why. Shadows dominate the room, It is a mother, holding her child. But she’s crying, and her clothes are torn. Then I realize, It’s my dream.