Shadows

"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

I can see only what my mirror shows me:
Brave knights riding out on a quest,
Joyful pennants unfurled in the spring wind;
Funeral processions in mournful dusk—
Then they quickly disappear
Into the mirror’s silver depths.

I can hear only what the warm wind carries:
Songs of celebration and sorrow
In the same warm sunlight that glints off my mirror;
Lover’s whispers on the night breeze—
Soon enough they fade as I sit
Captured in my web.

This is all I have.
The shadows rise before my eyes,
Made of nothing but fleeting memories of
All I have seen and heard,
And I want that which I can never have:
Anything but shadows.