If this mask falls from my face, And truly I am seen, Would I have, with you, a place, Far from the silver screen? To find a page in each book, Sign our names scene by scene, But you don’t know where to look, To find, to chase, a dream. Sewn within your closet gaze, A quiver starts to sing, Yet, too strong, your mind to faze, And take it as it seems. Without clothes or garments, still, Your figure’s incomplete, For no soul or sorrow mills, Beneath your smile serene. — - — So we stand on stages old, With no words of our own, Address the play and players— Pretend we love their cold. Their ice cuts inside our hearts, Teaches us to believe, That past predicts the future, — we are not meant to speak, Yet thoughts come as a river, To break, to build, to free, Passion turns deliverer, Of song, of script, of me, But curtains turn to cages, And theaters all have their fees.