In an empty room eyes without a face.

They are stirring other images,

glimpses of a distant life,

of a gone life.



The hands cannot identify the face

Behind the Iron Mask



Dim is within on the plane of the mind

a kneeled spirit under the boot of fear

cleansed with torture

traped in purity by the whip.



Daggers from sound penetrate

resistance behind each one,

a Holy inquisitor.

Mouths reveal the presence of

haunted beings unworthy to be said alive.



Open the window

Release the spirit from this empty body

Behind the Iron Mask



Draining pleasures from mental wounds

a need opposed to false excuses

unveils the greatest beast.