Art has layers much like love, hate, envy, ego, and even joy. It's translucent. From the moment of it's creation, it poses a question. It has endless possibilities to transform into anything the viewers make of it. It's Potential. Personalized even though it came from its own root site. It has an ebb and flow like any system. Yet it has freedom that can never be taken from it... Oh to be Art.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem