Life is not a single canvas
across which the palette
of existence plays out;
the days, years, the joys, the tears.
Life is but a wall
like the art gallery hall
upon which are hung
the transient images of our breath
Each panel a journey
a story unto itself
blessed by its very completion;
related, segmented, belated, translated.
Stories awaiting readers
like a song yet song
notes rising and falling between birth and death
Life is not a single canvas
but the wall upon which our memories are hung
(Copyright Steven S. Walsky 2008)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem