Tomorrow is a Sunday, and Simon, you must know that I hardly blog on Sundays.
The past week has been rather, irksome. I have a rather strange presentiment that next week will be the equivalent of this week, possibly even more aggravating, but with occasional fortuitous encounters, hopefully.

It is hard to recount, not to mention I hardly write anything, save for translation of the Chinese New Year script. Work that has been denied to me for 2 weeks has suddenly amounted to so much, I am admittedly a little alarmed. And, there is so much more to be done, Simon, yes I know, I really do. But yes, I shall confess. I am really not doing much about it.


Mr Kwok showed us the painting of The Lady of Shallot, and I shall have to confess that I have only ever read the poem once, and I never knew anything of a painting. Yes, I am terrible, Simon, I really am. I wish I knew more about things. I wish I knew more about Greek mythology. I wish I could visit the Egyptian display in the National Museum. I wish, I do wish, I wish it all.


The Conqueror Worm

Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly-
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Woe!

That motley drama- oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!- it writhes!- with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.

Out- out are the lights- out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

Indeed, the rise of the underdogs.
Let us hope and pray and wish that history shall not repeat itself.