There is a man without a face,
a faceless man without a name.
He’s the son of nobody-knows-whom,
the father of no one.
He talks rather slow,
but indeed he is a man.
He is somewhat like cellophane,
no one will take notice of his appearance.
He writes his name in invisible ink,
writing lines on the paper which will never be seen.
And as the years go by
he will just sink further still.