... com ela não funcionou muito bem, parece-me...
"we stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves."
Sylvia Plath
posted by ana at 11:52 da manhã
2 Comments:
I am not ugly. I am even beautiful.
The mirror gives back a woman without deformity.
The nurses give back my clothes, and an identity.
It is usual, they say, for such a thing to happen.
It is usual in my life, and the lives of others.
I am one in five, something like that. I am not hopeless.
I am beautiful as a statistic. Here is my lipstick.
I draw on the old mouth.
The red mouth I put by with my identity
A day ago, two days, three days ago. It was a Friday.
I do not even need a holiday; I can go to work today.
I can love my husband, who will understand.
Who will love me through the blur of my deformity
As if I had lost an eye, a leg, a tongue.
And so I stand, a little sightless. So I walk
Away on wheels, instead of legs, they serve as well.
And learn to speak with fingers, not a tongue.
The body is resourceful.
The body of a starfish can grow back its arms
And newts are prodigal in legs. And may I be
As prodigal in what lacks me.
Sylvia Plath
obrigada jctp. muito bom, mesmo.
tenho um problema com autores suicidas, tenho que confessar. doi-me muito.
este poema é muito bom.
may we be prodigal in what lacks us.
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