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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem