From birth, we have been wearing it,
Protecting our souls, // immortal yet unfading.
I look at the woman // in the painting,
The body, against a blue-brown sky,
She wears a white dress that trails down // to her heels,
Masked, with that face of deepest black.

Black hands forming traces // of cats and snakes,
Fingernails like proofs of geometry and mathematics,
Like some children claimed.
Between the face and body, // one can clearly see,
There exist towering palm // trees beneath spring light,
Red flowers are blooming,
And skin as profound As white shirts,
And western trousers that embrace the form.

"Come see what they have done,"
The mask speaks unbidden.
"Come witness with your // eyes what hands have wrought,"

Again and again, like // earthworms emerging from soil,
ceaselessly repeating.
Have you ever heard // the laugh of earthworms?
In their dark domain?
Laughing, crying, shouting.

He tells,
Do not fantasize about the sweet fragrance // of soil and grass.
The time has come // to truly see what they have done,
The mask urges without rest,
"Behold how they are adorned with wigs,
Draped in flags, painted with false colors, // and..."

"What?" I circle // to the back of the canvas,
Gazing upon that pure, // innate whiteness that remains.
"Nothing has changed—it is white,
Eternally white."

"SHUT UP!"
The mask cries out, // "You! You filthy racist!
Inferior, slave from the third world's margins!"
Suddenly the voice falls still,
Silence becomes merely a mask once more.
I stand there motionless, // saying nothing,
Nothing done.

I observe the cracks where // paint has dried upon the mask,
Those colorful decorations, // poorly glued, soon to fall—
Transparent shimmering plastic pieces catching light.
Beneath all this shines dazzling white,
with nowhere to hide.

Always in silence,
I reach to touch my face,
Knowing a mask rests somewhere there.
Though unseen.
Even if I cannot feel it // or know its true color.

I imagine It must be covered // with the dust of years.
All around me, others // wear masks of black,
At least what they acknowledge as official, // academic,
Specific black, yet also // varied hues and shades.

"What black? Who speaks of blackness?"
I watch the black mask // as it roars these words at me.
"This is dark brown," He declares.

The rest I cannot hear clearly,
Dark brown is not black, // and so on—
This I already know.
Here is not the first time,
Where such words have been spoken.
As for now, I dare // not call it black anymore.
It is not that // I cannot see or distinguish.
In front, what lies before.

They have woven black into the city, // embedded it in fairy tales.
Until no one can discern what is truly black // or white. No longer.
Children smile with stiffened lips, // shaking their heads,
Declaring their love for black, // for world, for love itself.
Even the whiteness they now call black:
Pearl white, ivory white, // white hair, feathers—
Until this world contains // no genuine black at all.

The lighthouse beam still cuts,
Through the blue sea's darkness.
Future travelers who struggle // to find their way.
Yet the shadow // between mask and body remains covered,
Which is called white in meaning,
Where is hidden from view in dictionaries.
Becoming "black" only,
Because its name is // no longer called "white."
Mask said.