It was as though she were writing her memoirs
on black paper with black ink—
all the words were there; all the details,
but nothing was revealed; all was sealed
in a penumbra of dark matter,
the events were camoflaged
like Elizabethan blackwork on black satin.
But by cloaking her identity
in enigmatic conundrums and deliberate
inscrutability, she paid a price.
She became an insoluable riddle,
like the locked-room mysteries
of John Dickson Carr. The onion-peel layers
of her profundity hardened into inpenetrable
shields, entrapping her heart
and all her emotions.
Inevitably, she became a phantom,
a blackbird in the night,
so perfectly absorbed in obscurity
that not only can we not see her,
she can no longer see herself.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
this is a gem. spot on. excellent description.