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I’m drawing a portrait on old paper leaf,
Unknown regular features…
He may be a brave and strong fighter, which lived,
Then died and revived in my picture.

It may be a quiet monk from ancientry,
Which got lost behind the centuries…
He might have the same light in his strict eyes,
His wisdom is kept by the river of times…

And what if such fighter did pass through this world,
Through struggles and gladness, through warmth and through cold…
It would be a miracle… or would be not?

And what if there was no legend, no tale,
The portrait is just a child of my thought,
It’s only the ink bends designed to naught,
And kept within limits of paper…

And what if the destiny’s way is like this:
His soul hasn’t yet flown down,
The one you can see on the old paper leaf
Is never born, known to no one?

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