Evening twilight slowly floods the high windows.
The palace-tower gently merges with the massive greys.
In the garden room
Irregular shapes of masks and statues
On black socles remain … still … waiting,
A small boy,
Intimidated by the sudden strangeness
Of his surroundings,
Also waits … breathing inaudibly,
Intensely looking at that one mask,
Tasting the smell of wood, straw, wax, aromatic tobacco.
After seconds, minutes, an eternity,
The afterglow of life, revives the empty sockets,
Like crimson cinders, kindled by a short gust of draught,
Eyes that see him, but don’t seem to notice him at all.
The black cloud of unknowing,
Drops like a heavy shroud,
Sucking away the remaining color.
Darkness. Adjustment of the eyes,
Behind the mask,
The contours of the banister,
The faint light of the rooms upstairs,
The murmur of people
Time to run.