A poem by Eponine
You may think that I have no eyes to see,
that I have no ears to hear,
that I am deaf to the world around me.
But thou art wrong, monsieur
I am not as deaf as you might like to think,
it is thee who is blind,
allthough I can not see thy face,
I can not look into thine eyes,
I can feel you,
thy aura is not yet gone,
I could feel thy presence here
from the day we hath parted.
I see you in the arms of another girl,
I sense thy heart beating next to hers,
I behold this,
and yet I speak naught,
for I am mute
to those who art blind.
You slide thine arms around her,
though you know naught of my life,
you know nothing of the real me,
and thou hast abandoned me thus.
I see her slumbering in thy embrace,
why is it her and naught me?
But dost thou knoweth who she really is?
Dost thee know her longer than thou do me?
Do not speak a single word to me now,
I shall give thee time to think about this some more,
is she who you really want?
What am I to you then,
just a child
or perhaps a plaything
which you can toss around carelessly?
Take heed now,
for when thou thyself shall be dropped
by thy newfound love,
I might not be there to catch thee.
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