The Photograph Lifted out of its dusty case, A relic from unknown past, Shadows nimbly staying still, Actors in a forgotten cast. . The paper crackles angrily, As I try to flatten out Pictures, people, and a time, Left forever in doubt. . Their clothes, their faces, So foreign now, their smiles faded to black, I look through a window to a different time, I don't think they'll welcome me back. . The wind rustles the Photograph, Yet this family's clothes move not, Their faces shrouded in mystery, The script an irrelevant plot. . These people, stationary and helpless, Forgotten forever `til now, My quest, my journey, my purpose, Discover their life, but how? . I begin with the torn Photograph, Caressing its forgotten souls, The world moved on and away from them, Their time, their life - so many holes. . And how, I ask, to understand, A life led near century ago, What values, what demands enforced, Whence did this family go? . Their lavish clothes speak of riches, Yet their dirtied faces do not, I share in their stark discomfort, Their eyes tell a hated plot. . Who were these people posing, To be taunting me with looks, Holding their secrets precious, Illiterate, or indulged in books? . So many questions, so few answers, I wish they'd leave me be, Who were they to be immortalized on paper? Who were they, these rich, these poor three? . Their lives were captured in a moment, Summed up in a single click, Their past was written on their faces, Their future still shrouded in mist.