When Consciousness enters a frisky mood,
Imagines a fitting room,
Trying out very common costumes and masks,
Those we all style in.
It disguises itself in that role of a human,
Curious to experiment the emotions of a mother,
The rap of a youngster,
The generosity of a bursting Sun,
The splendid friendship between two hummingbirds.
It loves to pose in a serene face
Walking down the streets,
As a remarkable woman that is your wife,
As a philosopher tickling words,
As a spring hail that hits you by the lake.
But it is never confused about these roles,
And their perishable unfolding
Than why are we so facilely deluded,
Rarely interested to recognise ourselves
As the skinless Self?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem