The Mask on the Masquerade.

Tribes mark their own as they parade
As a sign they revere, but a totem they fear
Clans claim the moans of a masquerade
Are a needed spite for their sneer

Wherefore we wander on rural streets
In market places and palaces
For god-like deities and spirits
Would feed when the dark grimaces.

The cover is a horrifying mirror
A reflection requiring cover
Very less it comes not with horror
But with cleanings from whence we don’t recover.

Behind the hide we hide the god we seek to show
A little twist on the wrist
And at least there’s more to what we don’t know
We depend on the wisdom from the East.

Something there is that does not love a mask
That cries to show its face to face a masquerade
Such thing there is if one might ask
Why these marks the tribes parade.

Leonell