What makes a man flesh on bone,
indented eyes, protruding nose.
His gait, his voice, his birth.
Even a beast has all of those.
What makes a man is his portrait,
One painted over a lifetime.
His art, his spirit, his grace,
These things appear in his face.
The colorfull humor over despair,
The distrust of maps makes me laugh,
He is a son, a husband, a father,
A man must take his own path.
What makes a man is his reflection,
Not his sense of any direction.
You think you are alone,
Flesh on bone.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem