You wear a mask, and as the years flow by,
this mask becomes a part of you. You see
yourself in mirrors and exclaim, "That's me,
it's me, the mask is me." Although you try
to fool the world, although you falsify
the facts, rewriting your biography,
know certain things cannot be fooled: a bee,
a wasp, an ant, a moth, a flea, a fly.
No, certain things will not be fooled: a tray,
a bowl, a soup ladle, a kettle spout,
a cup, a thermos. No detective, sleuth,
or grand inquisitor is needed: one day
you'll stand upon a podium without
a mask, trembling before the eye of truth.
If you have any comments on this poem, Yakov Azriel
would be pleased to hear from you.