People look at me
as a silent portrait.
They see tight lips
and a grim face.
"A cold fish”, that is their impression.

I sing or weep behind the portrait.
talk much in my self-fish tune.
It flows between black and white,
bouncing with tick, tick.
They don’t listen to a self-fish song,
omit to see the shades surrounding.

But I am not a talk doll,
to dump trimmed and useless speeches.
My life shows its ripples on paper,
not to please anyone or claim attention.
The road I am on, I am secure.
A cold fish to be, on the portrait.