There is more than just glass and wood,
As we look into our mirrors.
There is more of what's reflected back,
Unseen pain from all those years.
You may want to flip it over,
And see what lurks behind.
Ones' discontentment of it all,
That lay deep within ones' mind.
Painted eyes, lathered faces with creams.
We seem to stare at our lives,
When there behind are silent screams.
Years may come and go,
But your view still remains.
In a piece of glass reflecting lifes' image,
Held in an old, tattered wooden frame.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem