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("No! this face is only a mask, a wicked ornament, |
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Illuminated by an exquisite grimace, |
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Look and see, atrociously contorted, |
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The real head, and the sincere face |
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Turned back under the shadow of the face which lies." - |
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Charles Baudelaire) |
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He is profanity in sanctity's guise |
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An alias assumed I do realize |
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In their eyes, his cause - |
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When enticing and cunning in impact |
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Is still a criminal and evil act |
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So look for him vainly, |
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He, the incarnation of magickal nature |
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He turns unrecognizable even to the experienced eye |
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You obsessively pursue him |
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Failing to see, hat was why he came to be |
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One who annihilates with such impunity |
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He appears your friend, but |
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The Saint hides many Satans |
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He's contemptuous, you know |
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Of your Godgiven stupidities |
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He calls you in question with |
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Affected modesty and create |
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Of you an object of derision |
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You think him to be pariah |
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Whom company does exclude |
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But in the midst of all frenzy |
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He is - feasting in a transitory mood |
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Passion is a strict lord |
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He is also its humble slave |
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When bereft of common ways, |
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He strides before you on water |
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He makes clowns of kings, |
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Charm the guests, rides the ball |
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Is the master of disguise |
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Prince of the thousandfold face |
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The charming jester's smile |
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Which invites reason to demise |
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And imaginations rise |
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Inscrutable yes, venting his spleen |
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Somewhere night and day between |
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Is the master of disguise |
