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.