Dear Cressida,
Today I dreamed,
that at the cusp of dawn
I ran out into the splintering darkness of the street
shouting my prophecy of Troy’s demise to deaf, silent doors.
I finally sat, exhausted, under a leaky eave
and stared up at the disappearing moon,
(a histrionic image, really, a little amusing to think of it now)
and that’s when I felt a soft touch of your hand on my shoulder.
When I looked up into your eyes,
I saw an ancient, solemn grief
reflecting on my own,
that said, “I know. I believe you, I know that Troy will burn.”
Later you said you were simply worried
that I’d become ill, sitting out there in the cold
and that could be true for all I know:
Although I can see into the future,
I have never found it easy
to see into anyone’s soul
the way you saw into mine,
the first day we met.
Yours truly,
Cassandra
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