Facial Poem by Quaid-Uz- Zaman

It is not me.
My wrinkles, my sunken eyes, mistrusted frames all are the
magical works of divine time
neately knitted with the golden and silvery threads
embroidered in sophistry;
The old lady of the moon always with a smiling face
weaving but with a pitiless hand.
Sinking a face within a face.
A mirror within a mirror.
Even i can't recognize me
-a pure deception.
But a soul always without a little increase or decrease.
A shadow broken and dispersed but always contemplating
and recombining itself.
A machinery always assembling
and i cherish it in a secret
-indestructable.