My woman of thousand faces br Is not mine, independently of endless trying on br My thousand masks. She’s dipping her lips br In the black coffee which flushing her beautiful teeth, br The coffee linking us as the same blood group. br br Thousands of my words are sinking br In her only abyss of silence. br Black evening is rushing through the windows like a cold wave, br Illusory sense of security is running out together with br The shortage of my words-like bullets. br br My woman of thousand faces br Is just a mirage, a projection of happiness beyond the reach br In the wilderness of solitude, because God loves evil tricks. br He’s just a child, who sees a dream of me – br And far from always – not as a nice character.