I see your look, I see your look of suffering
We paint buildings, their windows and doors
In different colors within the same building
(If you like)
Colors that cry and stare and grin
Windows that talk
Doors that seem to walk
And then unfold
The thin mirage on nearer inspection.
Your face is not painted
No color cries on it
Yet it speaks more
Than windows and than doors we paint.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem