Blind Masquerade

My world is a Myriad of Colors

Here's the latest of my minds' weaving. This is a bit of a filler, sorry, I just thought it was best for you to get to know the character. I'm attempting to make her different from all of my other ones so far. Not as 'spunky' maybe. Wish me luck on that

This story belongs to me, I created it, I hold all rights to it. Any copy-cats will be foudna nd decapitated---or just prosecuted. Thank you for respecting my work.

Hope you enjoy, any feed back on this would be wonderful

Read/Vote/Comment/ENJOY!

Chapter One-----My world is a Myriad of Colors

The world is full of colors. Hues and shades that are in such variety they blend together at times. Even then they do not stay the same as the sun rises and then the moon the colors wax and wane. Not that I know.

The lovely things that I have watched unthinking,

Unknowing, day by day,

That their soft dyes have steeped my soul in colour

That will not pass away -

Great saffron sunset clouds, and larkspur mountains,

And fenceless miles of plain,

And hillsides golden-green in that unearthly

Clear shining after rain;

And nights of blue and pearl, and long smooth beaches,

Yellow as sunburnt wheat,

Edged with a line of foam that creams and hisses,

Enticing weary feet.

And emeralds, and sunset-hearted opals,

And Asian marble, veined

With scarlet flame, and cool green jade, and moonstones

Misty and azure-stained;

And almond trees in bloom, and oleanders,

Or a wide purple sea,

Of plain-land gorgeous with a lovely poison,

The evil Darling pea.

If I am tired I call on these to help me

To dream -and dawn-lit skies,

Lemon and pink, or faintest, coolest lilac,

Float on my soothed eyes.

There is no night so black but you shine through it,

There is no morn so drear,

O Colour of the World, but I can find you,

Most tender, pure and clear.

Thanks be to God, Who gave this gift of colour,

Which who shall seek shall find;

Thanks be to God, Who gives me strength to hold it,

Though I were stricken blind.

Colour by Dorothea Mackellar

It was a poem my sister Naeva had given to me when I had asked her to describe what colors were. I ran a slender fingertip over the raised bumps of the words and a slight smile curled over my lips. The irony of the poem was not lost on me. Not only that, but it was a bit funny that a blind girl was reading about colors. What was the difference between green and blue I wondered? Or the variance of color between the sun and the moon?