My breath is written on the glass,
A colourless canvas of my life,
In a private gallery of my own,
Guarded by the black curtain of my soul,
My dreams are frozen within,
Some days they drizzle down the drain,
Or shrivel in the fire of the sun,
The breeze embraces me like a ghost,
These stains are my mark on the world,
Someday they may imprint the soil,
And walk amongst the pure air,
But for now I am a silhouetted spectator,
Beholding the moving painting of the land,
And lamenting that a window is not a door.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.