Monday, 26 August 2013


I leave my loom of fancy dreams,
Run down the dizzy steps of schemes,
Throw down and shatter
The petty shelter of my Mirror.

I drop the blunted needle,
Take up a sword,
And in my left hand
Gleams a miséricorde.

I shall be no more a recluse:
I turn and face myself again,
Forgo the safety of these walls.
So what if I eventually fall?

I shall pay the price,
And count the cost quite small.
She died, though she lived not,
The Lady of Shalott.

Manuela Cardiga

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