As the day gets up I follow the wavy lines of darkness that disappear into the stone. I try to imagine its heart and the colours yet to be revealed. Are there any colours inside the stone? How can there be colours if there is no light? The only way to look into the heart of a stone is to wait for its slow erosion. But as soon as it happens, as soon as its surface is scratched by water and hard rubbing, a new surface emerges and pushes the limits inside. Is there anything behind the mask? As soon as you peel it off the skin, the emerging layer becomes a new mask. Faces are masks. What's inside can only be imagined, dreamed of, fantasised.
Never call a baroness, dame Or the other way around You will offend both Along with a taxonomy Honed through years Of meticulous study Notice how the dame slides While the baroness slithers One withers The other wears out Pay attention to dames They are more subtle Restrained Domestic Beware of baronesses They will reproach you Tame you And then dance with the curtains When the dame is lost for words The baroness will produce the right statement When the baroness looses control The dame will bring her to her senses One is not better than the other Nor higher Nor more sophisticated Nor even more evolved They are just different And when you miss human differences You are less human yourself