The words have lost nothing of their mystical meaning.
Somebody expresses them and the veil you were wearing
in front of your eyes is lifted by the chalk-white fingers of a mime.

Carnival.

Huge purple lips smile, revealing a mouth filled with white pearls.
Elegant masks tremble in a world of smiles of long forgotten vanished
inticements.

The mask is more than a disguise. It is an incognito.

It is the secret, the nameless. The consented. The unpunished.
It is permitted insanity, tolerated fragments of scattered minds.

A general ignoring all barriers and social eticate.

Carnival of...

You never know who the person is and nobody knows who they are themselves.

Masks.

Who is the person coming close with a curious word on the lips?
Who is grazing you with a pointed elbow?
Who is inviting you with a secret sign?
Who is following you in the labyrinth of ancient lanes?
And who is setting next to you at the table?
Nor do you know what shy white slipper touches your now trembling foot.

Venice.

The mask dulls and opiates the embarrassment, it veils the shame...it disguises
the redfaced cheeks...encourages one to speak and to risk.

Better than the safest hiding place, the mask protects the thousands of adventures
that were scattered in defense of living.

©Irmingard Anna Kotelev