Under my face, there, where my intelligence hurts me
And it rots while kills me, my mask is.
It´s my second skin, tender which calls me
To inform myself about the new ones of my soul.
My mask is like those Japaneses,
A white and smooth skin; a smile and a few inclement eyes.
My mask is hurry and weeping, cloud and ceiling.
It is tear and laugh; greeting and scorn.
My mask is glad in nude showing me
Because of my suffering it brightens his sight
And it redoubles his effort.
My mask asphyxiates me
Since he translates my flat thought
And he hides when he considers
That the convenience can give him a better act.
My mask is evasive when he is looked
And it is arrogant when she is not needed, this way it appears,
Coarse, arrogant, apprehensive.
If one sees him in a made mirror of the child's weeping,
To temperature of crystallized emptiness,
It can turn only in the half and in another hemisphere
My unsteady face, crying.
But also he shares, for the destination and his urgency
The sensations that uncertain overwhelm me.
Sometimes my mask takes possession of me
And it takes me of walk along the streets
Of the city that so much I love and that dominates me.
It establishes an action plan and sensually it seduces me.
It takes action of my body and leads me to walking.
It shows the better thing of me while it dominates me
And slowly it indicates me since it me will destroy.
Sometimes it is by night, sometimes in the tide of the day.
Do never be when it will leave me in account
Of what it will end tormenting myself the sight,
Because it leaves me opposite the house of that girl.
The one that hurts me, which me to feeling sorry it incites.
And while I fall to the floor, free to cry,
My mask hides in order that they do not see her,
In order that they do not blame her. In order that they do not irritate her,
In order that they do not look for her.
And it makes me pushed suffering the torture of knowing
That another day will begin again the dance
That in me the age fades …