مخفیگاه شارلوت.
The gray sky lowers, the hills like a green sea
Run fold upon fold far off, concealing their hollows,
The hollows in which rock the thoughts of the wife
Blunt, practical boats
Full of dresses and hats and china and married
daughters.
In the parlor of the stone house
One curtain is flickering from the open window,
Flickering and pouring, a pitiful candle.
This is the tongue of the dead man: remember,
remember.
How far he is now, his actions
Around him like livingroom furniture, like a décor.
As the pallors gather
The pallors of hands and neighborly faces,
The elate pallors of flying iris.
They are flying off into nothing: remember us.
The empty benches of memory look over stones,
Marble facades with blue veins, and jelly-glasses of
daffodils.
It is so beautiful up here: it is a stopping place.
*Sylvia Plath /
مخفیگاه شارلوت.
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