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Sylvia Plath.



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manuscrito original do poema "Stings", datado de 1962.






(...)

The sweat of his efforts a rain
Tugging the world to fruit.
The bees found him out,
Molding onto his lips like lies,
Complicating his features.

They thought death was worth it, but I
Have a self to recover, a queen.Is she dead, is she sleeping?
Where has she been,
With her lion-red body, her wings of glass?

Now she is flying
More terrible than she ever was, red
Scar in the sky, red comet
Over the engine that killed her
The mausoleum, the wax house.

p.s.: «Out of the ash. I rise with my red hair. And I eat men like air».