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Gedicht

Eugene O\'Connell

Mirror, Mirror

Mirror, Mirror

Mirror, Mirror

Which of us, hand on heart, can swear
He passed a mirror without looking
At his own reflection, not realising that
Others see a dunce’s cap on the head
That’s fussed over as if it was Cleopatra’s.
A head he’d swear on the holy book is
Wiser more debonair, as fit to hold office
As any high court Judge or Taoiseach.
Besotted with himself this dunce forgets
The story of Narcissus the boy who fell
In love with his own reflection in a well.
The gold washed out of his hair when
He was found, the colours of the Adonis
As withered as a handful of old grass.
Eugene O\'Connell

Eugene O\'Connell

(Ierland, 1951)

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Mirror, Mirror

Which of us, hand on heart, can swear
He passed a mirror without looking
At his own reflection, not realising that
Others see a dunce’s cap on the head
That’s fussed over as if it was Cleopatra’s.
A head he’d swear on the holy book is
Wiser more debonair, as fit to hold office
As any high court Judge or Taoiseach.
Besotted with himself this dunce forgets
The story of Narcissus the boy who fell
In love with his own reflection in a well.
The gold washed out of his hair when
He was found, the colours of the Adonis
As withered as a handful of old grass.

Mirror, Mirror

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