Plath, Sylvia: Totem
The engine is killing the track the track is silver,
Its running is useless.
Dawn gilds the farmers like pigs,
White towers of Smithfield ahead,
There is no mercy in the glitter of cleavers,
In the bowl the hare is aborted,
Flayed of fur and humanity.
Let us eat it like Christ.
Their round eyes, their teeth, their grimaces
Shall the hood of the cobra appal me—
Through which the sky eternally threads itself?
Dawn says, with its blood-flush.
Out of which the same self unfolds like a suit
Notions and tickets, short circuits and folding mirrors.
And in truth it is terrible,
They buzz like blue children
Roped in at the end by the one
Eszi a mozdony a sínpárt: az ezüst ösvény