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Sylvia Plath

Ariel

  • Geraldine Guarnerosje citiraoпре 3 године
    If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.

    You leave the same impression

    Of something beautiful, but annihilating.
  • Diana Ramosje citiraoпре 3 месеца
    Morir
    es un arte, como todo.
    Y yo lo hago excepcionalmente bien.
    Tan bien, que parece un infierno.
    Tan bien, que parece real.
  • Valeria Valderramaje citiraoпре 10 месеци
    El invierno es de las mujeres:

    la mujer reposada que hace punto

    junto a la cuna de nogal español, esgrimiendo contra el frío
  • Geraldine Guarnerosje citiraoпре 3 године
    This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.

    The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.

    The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God,

    Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility.

    Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place

    Separated from my house by a row of headstones.

    I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

    The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,

    White as a knuckle and terribly upset.

    It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet

    With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.

    Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky—

    Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection.

    At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

    The yew tree points up. It has a Gothic shape.

    The eyes lift after it and find the moon.

    The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.

    Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.

    How I would like to believe in tenderness—

    The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,

    Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

    I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering

    Blue and mystical over the face of the stars.

    Inside the church, the saints will be all blue,

    Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,

    Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.

    The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.

    And the message of the yew tree is blackness—blackness and silence.
  • Jacqueline Molina Cenje citiraoпрошлог месеца
    La savia
    aflora como el llanto, como
    el agua que persigue
  • Jacqueline Molina Cenje citiraoпрошлог месеца
    La luna no tiene de qué entristecerse,
  • Jacqueline Molina Cenje citiraoпрошлог месеца
    sus pies
    desnudos parecen estar diciendo:
    hasta aquí hemos llegado, se acabó.
  • Jacqueline Molina Cenje citiraoпрошлог месеца
    Mis sedas japonesas, desesperadas mariposas,
    p
  • Jacqueline Molina Cenje citiraoпрошлог месеца
    ¡Si pudiera sangrar o quedarme dormida!…
    ¡Si mi boca pudiera desposar un daño semejante!
  • Jacqueline Molina Cenje citiraoпрошлог месеца
    Pequeñas amapolas, llamitas del infierno,
    ¿sois tan inofensivas?
    Vuestro fuego fluctúa y no puedo tocaros.
    Pongo mi mano entre las llamas. Nada se quema.
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