Everyone speaks the same words, but doesn't say the same thing,
Come with me...
The woman hooked on questions sets forth to find the answers,
With a little bit of magic everything is possible in the crystal ball,
Time, growing like strands of hair, becomes visible along the path
That which we see starts to manifest itself like vague silhouettes gaining shape and becoming clearer,
Photography has its own language, and the eyes take on the colors of an underground river,
In the lines turning from black to white the anger cannot be hidden,
And becomes red,
Tired of running down the face, tears become rain in the glass,
Which suddenly calls to mind the saying: "I have never seen birds which so match the sky,"
The timid steps of bare feet are unable to understand the ground they walk on,
But instead hold onto the skirts of the wind,
And think themselves clouds,
A photograph is not a thing we finish by gazing at it,
Rather it is more like a road sign,
The difference being that we do not find directions,
But we look at where it takes us,
If you see it so, too, then come with me,
Have a good trip.