Portrait of a Saviour

Its surprising how they portrayed him:
milky white -
as pale as the jasmine flower,
lean and tall
like the postman
who delivers my letters.
Curly brown hair
that reached beyond his shoulders
- hair I would have given
anything to have.
Rosy red lips –
the kind I could have
only if I ate lollipops.
Eyes that forever stared into space
or the room
but never at me.
That’s how they always painted him –
The man they called the saviour of the world.
And then I saw her painting -
the child who said she had seen him
up close.
She had painted him differently.
Dark skin from working and walking
hair all mussed up
clothes that spoke of a tough life
and green eyes that looked directly at me.
This was the man I knew
this then was finally he
the saviour I had wanted to see.
No saviour I knew could look
like he lived in the palm of luxury
for he was never meant to be
a god of the nobles
he was always
a god of the wretched like me.

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