The mask is ironred, charblack,
its eyes outlined white
with porridge and birdshit.

I disappear when I put
it on, invisible even
to myself as I step

into firelight and voices.
Your drum may talk the rain
down from the clouds but I

am weaving the world
with these words.
Do not get in my way.

With weapon-shaped money
I will conquer my enemies.
With the cicatrice

of song I will reanimate
the dead for an army.
Do not get in my way:

I am weaving the world.
Step back from the mask or
with stone blade and spear-tip

with thirst, famine, warfare,
it will carve the lost
world on your face.