My woman of thousand faces
Is not mine, independently of endless trying on
My thousand masks. She’s dipping her lips
In the black coffee which flushing her beautiful teeth,
The coffee linking us as the same blood group.

Thousands of my words are sinking
In her only abyss of silence.
Black evening is rushing through the windows like a cold wave,
Illusory sense of security is running out together with
The shortage of my words-like bullets.

My woman of thousand faces
Is just a mirage, a projection of happiness beyond the reach
In the wilderness of solitude, because God loves evil tricks.
He’s just a child, who sees a dream of me –
And far from always – not as a nice character.