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Sileziosa ma parla
Alays Here,
like that picture on the wall,
they can never see,
what is truly behind that frame and glass,
whose face is behind that mask,
the only way,
we can find to say,
who is behind that mask,
is to be behind it,
or else there is no answer,
like a poet without a poem,
a heart without a beat,
an elusive picture of the soul of me,
blowing in the breeze,
can never be seen,
but is always felt,
if only it was,
but it could be,
that there are places,
beyond this sea,
here for a while,
though it seems we never stay,
at peace, at rest,
something just gets in the way,
shall we stop here or part ways,
or say good-bye another day,
one last and final time into the fray,
to live or die on this day,
one last look at that painting in the frame,
once more into the fray.
