Soon you will be like her, Prospero’s daughter,
finding the door that leads out of yourself,
out of the rare, enameled ark of your mind,
where you live with the gracious and light-footed creatures
that thrive in the glaze of your art and freedom.

Soon you will see the face, child, of a man
with its ridges and slopes, its cisterns of natural light,
you will wander by streams across the plain of a hand,
envy the dark as it lies down on a shoulder,
and for the sake of that shoulder, that hand, that face

banish yourself from the one flawless place.



"Shakespeare - Miranda The Tempest - Act 5 Scene 1"