she asks herself, “who am i?” but the only reply
is Echo's lonely cry
she wonders and is afraid that someone might know
she must create, breathe life into thought
willing victim to the muse, caught
in the ecstasy of flight and sailing like a leaf on the wind
but fear returns, thoughts dim, she falters and fails
her dying children wail
lacking the spark that would give them a life of their own
she mourns and hides her face from the light
wretched and losing the fight
against the twisting Fates that toy with this malleable clay
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