It is a portal to the outside world.
It is a portal into the past.
Past, Present, people, man, God, animals.
It does not choose its representation.
It cannot choose.
A storm comes.
The rain pours.
The droplets dry.
Ugly little streaks of gray color the thin, beautiful object.
Birds, rain, figures, pictures, children.
Children running, playing, jumping, having fun.
I sit down on the couch.
They are so close but I cannot touch them.
It is not a portal,
It is but a painting.
I envy its pictures.
Sun, clouds, beauty. I hate it.
A rock flies, crack!
Pieces.
Pieces.
It’s gone.