jueves, 12 de mayo de 2011


By Sylvia Plath

Empty, I echo to the least footfall,
Museum without statues, grand with pillars, porticoes, rotundas.
In my courtyard a fountain leaps and sinks back into itself,
Nun-hearted and blind to the world. Marble lilies
Exhale their pallor like scent.

I imagine myself with a great public,
Mother of a white Nike and several bald-eyed Apollos.
Insread, the dead injure me attentions, and nothing can happen.
Th moon lays a hand on my foehead
Blank-faced and mum as a nurse.

1 comentarios:

Jorge Ampuero 25 de enero de 2012, 14:54  

Plath, siempre entrañable.



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