A face is like a map of sorts
its lines mark hopes and fears
the wrinkles framing eyes and cheeks
tell tales of challenged years
Some faces are like stoic masks
they try to hide the pain
their gaze is downward or aside
they shun applause and fame
What secrets do some faces hide
beneath a wide brimmed hat
what deeds so cruel to be hid
what evil plots begat
Some visages are frozen cold
against harsh climes and lives
as if the northern wind still chills
their cheeks like piercing knives
The grooves and tributaries deep
can hardly be erased
no laughter and no stroke of luck
can blot what time has traced
Just like a land with hills and streams
is little changed by men
so is the face a timeless truth
to read now and again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem