A painting worth a thousand words

A swordmaster a young man sought,

In an attempt to learn the trade,

Among the lessons, he was taught,

A distinct effect one had made.

The sword is but a tool one can possess,

An extension of yourself you could say,

A mark on the battlefield you impress,

A signature that no one else can convey.

Each jab, each thrust you can't undo,

Thus you must make each decision count,

You must resolve to follow through,

As on the field, you have no room for doubt.

This stands true for any master of a craft,

As this picture can represent,

What impression did she enact?

For you, what had this image meant?

A linage on Indian grounds,

The first detail to catch my attention,

In a faraway place, her expression bound,

Another detail, not beyond my detection

The eyes are the mirror to the soul,

At least that's what I've heard

This fact can be seen in full,

Throughout this piece we observe.

Was she a mother in wait?

Of a son who left to die,

Was it due to her spouse's fate?

That had nearly driven her to cry.

Such inquiries come to mind,

As I write to you,

These thoughts I find,

Are only but a few.