Vanity Fair
de Sylvia Plath(2005)
1 min lectură
Mediu
Through frost-thick weather
This witch sidles, fingers crooked, as if
Caught in a hazardous medium that might
Merely by its continuing
Attach her to heaven.
At eye\'s envious corner
Crow\'s-feet copy veining on a stained leaf;
Cold squint steals sky\'s color; while bruit
Of bells calls holy ones, her tongue
Backtalks at the raven
Claeving furred air
Over her skull\'s midden; no knife
Rivals her whetted look, divining what conceit
Waylays simple girls, church-going,
And what heart\'s oven
Craves most to cook batter
Rich in strayings with every amorous oaf,
Ready, for a trinket,
To squander owl-hours on bracken bedding,
Flesh unshriven.
Against virgin prayer
This sorceress sets mirrors enough
To distract beauty\'s thought;
Lovesick at first fond song,
Each vain girl\'s driven
To believe beyond heart\'s flare
No fire is, nor in any book proof
Sun hoists soul up after lids fall shut;
So she wills all to the black king.
The worst sloven
Vies with best queen over
Right to blaze as satan\'s wife;
Housed in earth, those million brides shriek out.
Some burn short, some long,
Staked in pride\'s coven.