Hacía meses que estaba anunciado. No es que las amapolas vayan a enmudecer, pero están sustituyendo el grito por algo balbuceante que aún no sabe qué forma va a tomar, ni siquiera si llegará a hacerlo, pero, si lo alcanzaran, si lograran decir, sería aquí o aquí.
Un último poema de Sylvia Plath y sus amapolas.
Amapolas en julio |
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Poppies In July
Little poppies, little hell flames,
Do you do no harm?
You flicker. I cannot touch you.
I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burns
And it exhausts me to watch you
Flickering like that, wrinkly and clear red, like the skin of a mouth.
Like a mouth
A mouth just bloodied.
Little bloodi skirt !
There are fumes I cannot touch.
Where are your opiates, your nauseous capsules?
If I could bleed, or sleep!
If my mouth could marry a hurt like that!
Or your liquors seep to me, in this glass capsule,
Dulling and stilling.
But colorless. Colorless.