History lies in a golden frame that’s bolts rust against the wall
We stand behind it, quiet; tame, look up to it, standing tall

Memorize the faces; see their connections to the piece
Memorize the places, when they began and cease

History from that spot is retained, from what’s resides in golden frame
I stand far from it, squint; advance, look straight at it, image enhanced.

Feel the slumps upon the faces; see their body in the land
Feel the clumps upon the places, when them and people band.

History lies in a golden frame that’s bolts rust against the wall
I stand along a single stroke, feel the texture in my stance.

Know the start and end of my stroke; know its connections, consistency
Know History remains evoked; know History has a brush stroke of me.