They had besieged her body, never would they succeed in
Overtaking her language. She could desert their silhouettes.
She had been familiar with their habit of reducing people,
Disheartening them without lifting a single finger. She had
Faced that easygoing cruelty without a pause. These disasters
Tearing everything down to eliminate all kinds of differentiation.
She couldn’t pity a mind that awakens with the urge for destruction.
Her roots had tried to poison her too and yet she found a medicinal
Growth in them, a possibility for alteration, vulnerability. She would
Never cut herself off from the elements that empowered her. She mastered
The act of metamorphosis and recreation. And she left you behind.
There was no remedy within you and you refused to love yourself and killed instead.
“Woman in front of the Mirror” by János Vaszary (1867-1939)
Croque-Melpomene 