I came upon this during my daily poetry fix; wisdom for the ages. Which mask do you wear?

Winter Encounter

Who does not hope for a perdurable heart
or hone the cold edge of his spirit?
With eyes barely opened, we see the world's hatred,
tottering into the world, we fall on our faces,
hoping for love, we find the world slack in its loving,
touching with tentative hands, we wince under our wounds:
knowing these things, who would not look to his weaponry,
temper himself for survival,
or live like a knife blade, returning one wound for another?
The finicky brazed it out with a shadow of bravado,
those with the tenderest skins reach for their scabbards,
while those who would settle for love,
midway in kiss, with an arrogant,
take-it-or-leave-it, pass the luckless and credulous
by, without once looking back.
So wags the world: up hill and down dale
they set up their tables and peddled their masquerades,
the pitchman was there with a different mask for each comer --
a crespecular mask, or the face of a tiger, the masks
of austerity, piety, family pedigree --
till the full moon moved out of its quarter
and pitch-black in the darkness, we all looked the same.