Lonely in the golden dusk,

Sits the master of old crafts.

Faceless god covered in time,

Bearer of the silent names,

Madmen who set the fire to the stars,

Childish fool, architect of fates.

With his chisels made of luck,

Masks alike to him, he carves:

Kings and beggars, mother and sluts.

Cast and wood, ivory and tusk.

To this forms of mud and ash,

Words of love and praise he whispers.

One last breath and it is done,

Another mirror has awakened.

Writer with the soul of a poet. I'm trying not to take myself too serious. Deeply grateful that I can share my thoughts & emotions with you.

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