sábado, 24 de março de 2012

imagem: nikola borissov

She speaks always in her own voice
Even to strangers, but those other women
Exercise their borrowed, or false voices
Even on sons and daughters.

She can walk invisibly at noon
Along the high road, but those other women
Gleam phosphorescent - broad hips and gross fingers -
Down every lampless alley.

She is wild and innocent, pledged to love
Through all disaster; but those other women
Decry her for a witch or a common drab
And glare back when she greets them.

Here is her portrait, gazing sidelong at me,
The hair in disarray, the young eyes pleading:
'And you love? As unlike those other men
As I those other women?'

Robert Graves