Poor broken glass, I often did behold
in thy sweet semblance my old age new born;
but now that faith fresh mirror, dim and old,
Shows me a bare boned death by time outworn;
O, from thy cheeks my image thou hast torn,
and shivered all the beauty of my glass,
That I no more CAN SEE WHAT I WAS........
1594 - the rape of Lucrèçe
vendredi 12 septembre 2008
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