Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusions of a Greek necessity
Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.
Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little
Pitcher of mil, now empty.
She has folded
Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden
Stiffens and odours bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.
The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.
She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.
Sylvia Plath (Ariel, 1963)
Este fue el último poema que escribió Sylvia Plath a seis días de su muerte.
La despedida es irrevocable y definitiva.