THE FRAME

It’s funny how things change,
A mountain chain begins
close connected, but a distant range,
I imagine a picture frame,
That changes colour, ever strange.

Today you’re in it, tomorrow I’m out,
Strong experiences exchanged, without a doubt.
When will I ever get used to this mixture,
This frame I call a perfect picture?

Paint is splattered here and there,
A magnificent symbiosis it forms,
But who else would stop to look, to care,
In place of a thousand splendid dawns.



Nothing holds proof of my existence,
Then I see you, a blurred vision in the distance,
You explain trust, I hold back in resistance,
Slowly I give up in turn of your strong persistence.

I can’t trust this frame,
This sad picture no passerby’s interested in,
I witness the unknown colour drain,
No one feels my pain.

The frame hanging on a feeble nail,
It may fall and brake, it may fail,
The picture now grey, a sad tone pale,
Like a myth, a legend, a forgotten tale.

Then, when least expected,
A passerby catches me off guard,
He stands still, his expression netted,
I’m trapped in an empty frame, barred.
His glare is intense,
A smile breaks out
To increase the suspense,
The pressure sinks in, I cry
And shout.



He points at the grey picture,
In the almost empty frame,
He calls out to the attendant,
And when the attendant came,
He said this is the one he wanted,
I thought as being taunted,
Why would he want me?
Of all the others that held more beauty.
He said it struck his attention,
Of all the colourful rest,
Like a Bavarian gentian,
The ones grown in the west.
He said all the pictures were bright
And beautiful too,
But he was mesmerized by the simple beauty,
That the grey picture in the empty frame drew…