"Magic Mirror on the wall, who is the fairest one of all?"
The lush trees glowing in the sunlight,
Gumamelas are yellow as the honey's bees on the right,
My hands were clutched tight,
As I held the knife stabbing a face in plain sight.
There is blood rushing.
All over its face, dark crimson red here;
Its eyes are a widely open thing,
As blood stream out from there.
As I cut its face,
I do not really feel the guilt of holding back.
I feel apathetic of the motion;
I found grace,
There is a lock;
I actually liked it.
Drawing lines in its face using the knife,
Tracing the blood using my finger tips,
Smelling the blood dips,
And painting it in the woods that lies.
Tasting, licking – sweet as the rose in its thorn,
Grinning like a devil,
While watching its face turn and torn,
Into a completely ugly creature level.
Having scars all around its face,
I do not feel any pain;
I wonder, does it feel any pain,
Because I stabbed its face many times on that pace?
It is an art, is not it?
A forbidden art,
For ruining someone's beauty out of the pit.
At least, its consent came from the heart.
The knife fell on the grass as I accidentally held it out,
I touched my face and it hurt so badly;
When I looked down the valley,
My eyes caught the knife blade;
I was horrified by the view made,
I wanted to scream but I could not shout.
I felt the tears streaming down my ugly face –
Or is it still a face?
It looked like Satan's hell.
. . . What have I done?
"Slave in the Magic Mirror, come from the farthest space, through wind and darkness, I summon thee. Speak! Let me see thy face."
"Lips red as the rose, hair black as ebony, skin white as snow."
"Over the seven jeweled hills, beyond the seventh wall, in the cottage of the seven dwarfs, dwells Snow White, fairest one of all."
— Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937)
