Whispering words
behind a fragile image
that stand between
what is real
and what is an illusion
Like fingers
touching the piano
the piano responds
On pages of yesterday
I play the song of today
Scars appear in colors
I have seen in a distance
somewhere where time
no longer exists
Only white purity
in the absence of shade
The strings of the guitar
become tomorrows
open gates
Where mystics stand
leaving what is unknown
to discovery of self
Way beyond
what can be seen
As the music continues
the opened door
closes again.
I can not open
no, not this time.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem