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Sylvia Plath
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The Moon Was A Fat Woman Once
They are always with us, the thin people Meager of dimension as the gray people
On a movie-screen. They Are unreal, we say:
It was only in a movie, it was only In a war making evil headlines when we
Were small that they famished and Grew so lean and would not round
Out their stalky limbs again though peace Plumped the bellies of the mice
Under the meanest table. It was during the long hunger-battle
They found their talent to persevere In thinness, to come, later,
Into our bad dreams, their menace Not guns, not abuses,
But a thin silence. Wrapped in flea ridden donkey skins or bits of burlap, squatting together on granite steps where the mica glinted at noonday like broken glass -- famous for their scantness.
Empty of complaint, forever Drinking vinegar from tin cups: they wore
The insufferable nimbus of the lot-drawn Scapegoat. But so thin,
So weedy a race could not remain in dreams, Could not remain outlandish victims
In the contracted country of the head 更多更详尽歌词 在 ※ Mojim.com 魔镜歌词网 Any more than the old woman in her mud hut could
Keep from cutting fat meat Out of the side of the generous moon when it
Set foot nightly in her yard Until her knife had pared
The moon to a rind of little light. Now the thin people do not obliterate
Themselves as the dawn Grayness blues, reddens, and the outline
Of the world comes clear and fills with color. They persist in the sunlit room: the wall paper
Frieze of cabbage-roses and cornflowers pales Under their thin-lipped smiles,
Their withering kingship. How they prop each other up!
They outnumber us in the towns and cities.
We own no wildernesses rich and deep enough For stronghold against their stiff
Battalions. See, how the tree boles flatten And lose their good browns
If the thin people simply stand in the forest, Making the world go thin as a wasp's nest
And grayer; not even moving their bones.
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