边缘 (Sylvia Plath)

这个女人已臻于完美。
她死去的
身体带着成就的微笑，
希腊命运女神的幻像
流动于她宽外袍的涡卷里，
　　
她赤裸的
双脚似乎在说：
我们已走了老远，该停下来了。
每一个死去的孩子盘卷着，一条白色的毒蛇，
在每一个小小的
　　
如今已空了的奶罐子。
她已将
他们卷回自己的体内像玫瑰
的花瓣关闭当花园
凝结而芳香自
　　
夜华甜美、深沉的喉间流出。
月亮没有什么值得哀伤，
自她尸骨的头巾凝视。
她习于这累事情。
她的黑衣拖曳且沙沙作响。

The woman is perfected
Her dead

Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity

Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare

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 milk, now empty
She has folded

Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden

Stiffens and odors 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.