Masters of deception
and slaves to illusions.
Picture of beauty drawn by lines of lies.
In sweet singing birds,
songs of love I discern;
I turn as I churn this desire in me.
Vices are games of chance,
entraping the soul the more it commits.
What is your secret?
What do you hide in those disguises?
My curious eyes wish to unveil it.
But so is your heart more intentful
to keep it from me.
You reveal shadows with each of my advancing footsteps.
And mysterious beyond these depths of misery.