And life, like a canvas, all of pieces and varicoloured,
What once wove a mother, born with a cry.
Like a patchwork quilt, the memory of a distant childhood,
Which with his head from the fears of sheltered at night.
As an artist's canvas in a mad stroke of a brush,
Life created its masterpiece, scattering colors.
That black swabs, the sins of the reminiscences of the firstborn,
Then suddenly bloody, not that dawn, or sunset memory.
All life, like a rainbow broken by a prism of destinies,
But all the same tried to change the light of the sun.
And only once through the palette of steps taken,
You will see what you do not want to see, this is the truth.
And then the picture is finished, filled with soul,
With a blanket of rags, as in childhood quietly sheltered ...
It was cut by broken ribbons of colored events,
Life in the canvas is written by the Creator with a pen, and with a brush.
"REFLECTIONS" Grandpa Go