Apprehensions
There is this white wall, above which the sky creates itself––
Infinite, green, utterly untouchable.
Angels swim in it, and the stars, in indifference also.
They are my medium.
The sun dissolves on this wall, bleeding its lights.
A grey wall now, clawed and bloody.
Is there no way out of the mind?
Steps at my back spiral into a well.
There are no trees or birds in this world,
There is only a sourness.
This red wall winces continually:
A red fist, opening and closing,
Two grey, papery bags––
This is what I am made of, this, and terror
Of being wheeled off under crosses and rain of pieties.
On a black wall, unidentifiable birds
Swivel their heads and cry.
There is no talk of immortality among these!
Cold blanks approach us:
They move in a hurry.
[Sylvia Plath, Antología, edición de Jesús Pardo, Madrid, Visor, 2003, p. 268]
Traducir es traicionar.
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Un respiro
