“He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass-green turf, At his
heels a stone.” (IV.V.XXX)
The warm whisper of a melody winds through the air, escaping like the last embers of
an abandoned fire
From the chilled lips of crippled innocence flows the omen of foretold sleep
Up she goes, wracked with the weight of a sort of neglected recklessness, heavy
To braid-to weave-to intertwine; to speak through those which so romantically offer life
and beseech upon death
Go silently; succumb to the suffocation of the mouth and the suppression of the mind
The ferality of consciousness, the human abyss, danker than the lure of the murky
water
The salt of remorseful tears tastes blue, stains blue; to reduce the righteous to such
self-destructive and cruel impotence
Hamlet, by none but one will he be vexed, forsaken much as the beauty of fair Ophelia
Laertes, he will cry deepest sorrow, as though to thee too belonged a heart melancholy
Father, he will look and he will be–ahead, him, look there and see!
Be it the tale of corrupted virtue, of stained purity, of demoralized chastity; the tale of
tainted truth, of luckless love, and of unseen nobility
Be it the tale of
Ophelia.
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