Facial

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 with  always a smiling face  weaving  but with a pitiless hand.
Sinking  a  face within a face .
A mirror within a mirror
Even i do not 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 reviving
and i find it in secret ,undestructable.