...e esgravata.

segunda-feira, 29 de dezembro de 2008


Sylvia Plath.


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».

Nenhum comentário:

armário.roupeiro: cabides.

jaz.mim_tu... aqui, deixara de o ser.

à espreita de fa|c|to & gravata.