segunda-feira, fevereiro 1

Love Letter Not easy to state the change you made. If I'm alive now, then I was dead, Though, like a stone, unbothered by it, Staying put according to habit. You didn't just toe me an inch, no-- Nor leave me to set my small bald eye Skyward again, without hope, of course, Of apprehending blueness, or stars. (...) And I slept on like a bent finger. The first thing I saw was sheer air And the locked drops rising in a dew Limpid as spirits. Many stones lay Dense and expressionless round about. I didn't know what to make of it. I shone, mica-scaled, and unfolded To pour myself out like a fluid Among bird feet and the stems of plants. I wasn't fooled. I knew you at once. (...) Sylvia Plath
eXTReMe Tracker