O dia em que você morreu adentrei a terra
Ao hibernáculo mal iluminado
Onde abelhas, listradas em preto e dourado, dormem na
nevasca
Como pedras hieráticas, e o chão é duro.
Foi bom por 20 anos, que invernada -
Como se você nunca tivesse existido, como se eu fosse
Gerada por Deus ao mundo desde a barriga de minha mãe:
Seu amplo ventre vestiu a marca de divindade.
Eu não tinha nada a fazer com culpa ou qualquer coisa
Quando rastejando retornei ao coração da minha mãe.
Pequena como uma boneca no meu vestido de inocência
Eu sonhei com sua épica jornada, imagem por imagem.
Ninguém morreu ou murchou no palco.
Tudo aconteceu em uma iluminação durável.
O dia em que despertei, eu acordei em Churchyard Hill.
Encontrei seu nome, seus ossos e tudo
Inscritos em uma pedra e apertados por uma cerca de ferro
torta.
Nesta caridosa enfermaria, este albergue, onde a morte
Ronda pé por pé, cabeça por cabeça, nenhuma flor
Rompe o solo. Este é o caminho de Azaleias.
Um campo de bardana abre para o sul.
Seis pés de cascalho amarelo lhe cobrem.
A sálvia artificial vermelha não se mexe
Na cesta de sempre-vivas de plástico que colocam
Na lápide ao lado da sua, nenhuma apodrece,
Embora as chuvas dissolvam uma tintura sangrenta:
As falsas pétalas gotejam, escorre vermelho.
Outro tipo de vermelho me incomoda:
O dia em que sua vela
folgada tomou a respiração da minha irmã
O tranquilo púrpuro
marítimo igual pano maligno
Que desenrolou minha
mãe na sua derradeira volta ao lar.
Eu emprestei os sedimentos de uma tragédia antiga.
A verdade é que, final de outubro, no nascimento do meu
pranto
Um escorpião o envenenou a cabeça, e o amaldiçoou;
Minha mãe sonhou com sua face sob mar.
Os atores petrificados posam e pausam para respirar.
Eu trouxe o meu amor ao nascer, e então você morreu.
Foi a gangrena que te comeu até o osso
Minha mãe disse; você morreu como qualquer homem.
Como deveria eu crescer naquele estado de espírito?
Eu sou o fantasma de um suicídio infame,
Minha própria navalha azul enferrujando em minha garganta.
Oh perdoe aquele que pede por perdão em
Seu portão, pai - sua cadela, filha, amiga.
Foi o meu amor que nos fez morrer.
Sylvia Plath/ tradução Luzia Biermann Silveira
Electra on Azalea Path
The day you died I went into the dirt,
Into the lightless hibernaculum
Where bees, striped black and gold, sleep out the blizzard
Like hieratic stones, and the ground is hard.
It was good for twenty years, that wintering—
As if you had never existed, as if I came
God-fathered into the world from my mother's belly:
Her wide bed wore the stain of divinity.
I had nothing to do with guilt or anything
When I wormed back under my mother's heart.
Small as a doll in my dress of innocence
I lay dreaming your epic, image by image.
Nobody died or withered on that stage.
Everything took place in a durable whiteness.
The day I woke, I woke on Churchyard Hill.
I found your name, I found your bones and all
Enlisted in a cramped necropolis,
Your speckled stone askew by an iron fence.
In this charity ward, this poorhouse, where the dead
Crowd foot to foot, head to head, no flower
Breaks the soil. This is Azalea Path.
A field of burdock opens to the south.
Six feet of yellow gravel cover you.
The artificial red sage does not stir
In the basket of plastic evergreens they put
At the headstone next to yours, nor does it rot,
Although the rains dissolve a bloody dye:
The ersatz petals drip, and they drip red.
Another kind of redness bothers me:
The day your slack sail drank my sister's breath
The flat sea purpled like that evil cloth
My mother unrolled at your last homecoming.
I borrow the stilts of an old tragedy.
The truth is, one late October, at my birth-cry
A scorpion stung its head, and ill-starred thing;
My mother dreamed you face down in the sea.
The stony actors poise and pause for breath.
I brought my love to bear, and then you died.
It was the gangrene ate you to the bone
My mother said; you died like any man.
How shall I age into that state of mind?
I am the ghost of an infamous suicide,
My own blue razor rusting in my throat.
O pardon the one who knocks for pardon at
Your gate, father—your hound-bitch, daughter, friend.
It was my love that did us both to death.
Sylvia Plath
Electra on Azalea Path
The day you died I went into the dirt,
Into the lightless hibernaculum
Where bees, striped black and gold, sleep out the blizzard
Like hieratic stones, and the ground is hard.
It was good for twenty years, that wintering—
As if you had never existed, as if I came
God-fathered into the world from my mother's belly:
Her wide bed wore the stain of divinity.
I had nothing to do with guilt or anything
When I wormed back under my mother's heart.
Small as a doll in my dress of innocence
I lay dreaming your epic, image by image.
Nobody died or withered on that stage.
Everything took place in a durable whiteness.
The day I woke, I woke on Churchyard Hill.
I found your name, I found your bones and all
Enlisted in a cramped necropolis,
Your speckled stone askew by an iron fence.
In this charity ward, this poorhouse, where the dead
Crowd foot to foot, head to head, no flower
Breaks the soil. This is Azalea Path.
A field of burdock opens to the south.
Six feet of yellow gravel cover you.
The artificial red sage does not stir
In the basket of plastic evergreens they put
At the headstone next to yours, nor does it rot,
Although the rains dissolve a bloody dye:
The ersatz petals drip, and they drip red.
Another kind of redness bothers me:
The day your slack sail drank my sister's breath
The flat sea purpled like that evil cloth
My mother unrolled at your last homecoming.
I borrow the stilts of an old tragedy.
The truth is, one late October, at my birth-cry
A scorpion stung its head, and ill-starred thing;
My mother dreamed you face down in the sea.
The stony actors poise and pause for breath.
I brought my love to bear, and then you died.
It was the gangrene ate you to the bone
My mother said; you died like any man.
How shall I age into that state of mind?
I am the ghost of an infamous suicide,
My own blue razor rusting in my throat.
O pardon the one who knocks for pardon at
Your gate, father—your hound-bitch, daughter, friend.
It was my love that did us both to death.
Sylvia Plath
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