The Tale of Father’s Magic Mask


I take a look at all your faces
as I start searching for mine,

It can’t be found, there are no traces,
But I find a broken mask, divine.

I take a look at vibrant rainbows
and ask my God, “where is mine?”

There are none left, he says to me,
I’m left with tempests, no sunshine.

And then I find blue crystals shining,
they sparkle with a blinding light.

I need a piece, I break to take,
the sharp shards cut, I lose my sight.

On the level fourth, I find these men,
with eyes so kind, and voice of zen,
I look at them, then speak my mind,
they have no ears, is all I find.

Atop three wheels, his carriage runs,
but the balance somehow never dwindles.
With voices four, maybe more,
it houses people in two bundles.

The vanished village, before the floods,
had a shop with magic masks.
The keeper died and left his buds,
the masks went off as waters gushed

Some cracked, some missed, others: found
lying around, making no sound,
I walked a bridge, took one from ground
and since that day, with me, it’s bound.


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