蝸牛的詩放在樹葉的盤中？
那不是我的，別收下。
密封鐵皮罐裏的醋？
別收下。味道不純正。
一個金指環，裏麵有個太陽？
謊言。謊言加上一絲痛苦。
葉子上的霜，完美無缺
大鍋，在說話，劈裏啪啦。
在阿爾卑斯九座黑色的
山頂上自言自語。
鏡中有一場****，
大海擊碎了它的灰色調子——
愛情，愛情，我的季節。
The Couriers
The word of a snail on the plate of a leaf？
It is not mine. Do not accept it.
Acetic acid in a sealed tin？
Do not accept it. It is not genuine.
A ring of gold with the sun in it？
Lies. Lies and a grief.
Frost on a leaf，the immaculate
Cauldron，talking and crackling
All to itself on the top of each
Of nine black Alps.
A disturbance in mirrors，
The sea shattering its grey one—
Love，Love，my season.
By Sylvia Plath