Speculus Mundi

Born a monarch with no crownHere I am to reclaim my rightsWatch me command the thousand-head-crowdIn the glare of bright lightsA throne for hundred sagesIt works its magic on the hungry onesTime freezes on the voice commandOf the next magus entering the stageSlaves of IllusionPlaying the game of aweSlaves to mirrorsTrapped in the purgatory of egoSlaves!Ready to enlive his own deceaseTo fill the audience pitBleeding real drops, swallowing sweatAnd working every wrinkle creaseArtisan among mastersUnable to shrug his costume offGrown into his mask with fleshThe spectator of his own actIllusion arcana apprenticeHunched behind the setHe vanishes into lethargic oblivionTill the next curtain-up callAs magus majorEntrapped in servant's rolePerforming his mute swansongTo the careless crowdI'm enliving the ravish of soulEach time I enter the stageTrading the new mouldShaped of sweat and sleepless nights