Do you see the essence, lost in a bad translation, wordmangled in this poem? I’m a lurker in words, unintentionally deceiving — an open book in a foreign language. Do you see me in you? Look at the mirror, do you see me? I make you believe you’ve seen me, if not overlayed on mirror images then through pen strokes, I never meant. It is just a page, through which you can’t see the one underneath — a fault of the medium, you say. But, someday you’ll meet someone. Someone who looks like me then you’ll see his skin as makeup. Never was he, I never will you see me; lonely in separate lands.
