Every brush stroke of paint got hardened,
and all life got dried up.
Only a pathway of awe is left—
nothing else.

When irises glide over me, the interpretation changes,
but I still cannot move—
being framed like superstition
I am a painting on the wall—
a pigment on an aged canvas trapped in the museum halls.
I try to cry and feel, but I cannot,
if I am just a turquoise reflection without any reactions or reinforcements.

Maybe one day my linen face will peel off,
and I will be taken off this wall.
But now I know who I am—
I guess I have never lived in the painting after all.