A minha mãe

Lament A Villanelle The sting of bees took away my father who walked in a swarming shroud of wings and scorned the tick of the falling weather. Lightning licked in a yellow lather but missed the mark with snaking fangs: the sting of bees too away my father. Trouncing the sea like a ragin bather, he rode the flood in a pride of prongs and scorned the tick of the falling weather. A scowl of sun struck down my mother, tolling her grave with golden gongs, but the sting of bees took away my father. He counted the guns of god a bother, laughed at the ambush of angels' tongues, and scorned the tick of the falling weather. O ransack the four winds and find another man who can mangle the grin of kings: the sting of bees took away my father who scorned the tick of the falling weather. Sylvia Plath