Stories in White

By Tanya Shah, B.A Geography honours

 Edited by Nandana

The needle that stitches my wounds is the same that unspools my veins,

So I hold it, not to heal, but to carve

A painting of pain, of fragrance, of forgotten tales. 

I stand before my canvas-hushed, expectant

And ask, What song would you have me paint?

But silence drapes over its skin like a delicate veil.

There’s a story stitched into these rough textures, 

Unheard, unsung, unseen.

Heard only by the artisans who 

Bled their art into existence

Opening their arteries to birth Mona Lisa’s smile, 

Sacrificing their names for the glow of Sistine ceilings. 

Seen only by those adorned in jewels, 

Who admired, but never knew the hands that shaped beauty. 

Sung only by warriors, who fell before their masterpiece was unveiled, 

Leaving behind shadows in the strokes of eternity. 

The wind carries their essence, whispering through time, 

Echoing across scrolls and murals, 

Across manuscripts lost to flames, 

Across tapestries woven, unwoven, and woven again. 

Each hand, a river of stories, flowing into this boundless white.

The canvas was never silent

It listened, it mourned, it remembered. 

Yet with every stroke, with every erasure, 

It became a palimpsest of forgotten dreams, 

Waiting for another soul to arrive, brush in hand, 

And begin the cycle anew. 

So I did the same, as must have been done by Van Gogh.

I repainted it to white,

Whispered all the secrets into its waiting hush,

And left the room

For another hand to weave its story,

And send it to the wind.