Friday, 16 August 2013


I am faced
With sharp awareness:
I have no skills to contend
In this same arena
As such warriors
As I have seen.
I sense dimly
The motions behind veils,
And tangled games.

Shall I admit
How it confounds me?
I have no skill,
And even less wit,
My way with words
Cannot compete
With a sharp-eyed
Pseudo-friend's intent,
Barbed with sly malice,
Oiled with despite.
Where once I believed
Dwelt kindness
And underneath
A sly enjoymen
At my pain at this deceit:
"Oh you are naive..."

So away from me, confusion.
I do not wish to see.
Let me be me; free
In my pretty narrow world
Of make-believe.

For me it is a done race:
You see, I ran for joy,
For the bright wind
Of sincerity in my face.
I cannot play this game
I will not run for pain.

So away from me
If you be spoilers,
What joy can there be?
For the foxes, the little foxes;
Spoiling tender vines,
Drawing from sweet grapes
Nothing but sour wine?

Manuela Cardiga

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