The Certain Face

—Oh, it’s a terrible thing to see— Look; the face, that ugly face reflected in a broken mirror. It’s a daffodil, the dream of Narcissus’, it’s an inevitable arrogance, the karma of Hamlet’s, yet no way to cast all these phantoms away he became a sad wanderer who was going round and round on the same spot every night with great despair. Its hairs are stiff and lusterless, as the pieces of stiff wires, or wayside grasses that died in the dust, its eyes are evil, which appeared full of cold plot, as if an untrustworthy Iago, or a betrayer Judas Iscariot, the lips, they are an immoral saint’s indecent language maker, a piece of greasy fat, the nose, it’s a hog’s nose, which the hog originally was born for the only purpose of gluttony, lives in filthiness and idleness indifferently; though he swallows the pearls licks the vomits with same mouth to fill his never contented stomach, the forehead, it’s a forehead of the distrustful little devil, that not even once, believed in truth or the beauty, and shriveled from the curse, and has expelled into the wasteland, the tongue, it’s an Eden’s Serpent’s, Eve’s tongue, that gulps perjury without blushing, and cold as an ashy corpse. The face that is in the broken mirror is the fading daffodil, the broken pride the never healed wound. The face that is in the broken mirror is the lifeless remaining reflection, the vision as if a monologue without response.