Scrapek z wierszem Sylvii Plath







"Edge"


The woman is perfected.

Her dead



Body wears the smile of accomplishment,

The illusion of a Greek necessity



Flows in the scrolls of her toga,

Her bare



Feet seem to be saying:

We have come so far, it is over.



Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,

One at each little



Pitcher of milk, now empty.

She has folded



Them back into her body as petals

Of a rose close when the garden



Stiffens and odors bleed

From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.



The moon has nothing to be sad about,

Staring from her hood of bone.



She is used to this sort of thing.

Her blacks crackle and drag.

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