And the Masks turned and turned.
Slow they danced with measured steps.
Studied each step and pace and slow.
And the Masks turned and turned.
And though the winds
that Zephyr sent to blow such
frost and dreary chill
yet they touched not the Masks
that underneath their identity hid:
and revelled in the mystery of it.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem