What is this, behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful?
It is shimmering, has it breasts, has it edges?

I am sure it is unique, I am sure it is what I want.
When I am quiet at my cooking I feel it looking, I feel it thinking

'Is this the one I am too appear for,
Is this the elect one, the one with black eye-pits and a scar?

Measuring the flour, cutting off the surplus,
Adhering to rules, to rules, to rules.

Is this the one for the annunciation?
My god, what a laugh!'

But it shimmers, it does not stop, and I think it wants me.
I would not mind if it were bones, or a pearl button.

I do not want much of a present, anyway, this year.
After all I am alive only by accident.

I would have killed myself gladly that time any possible way.
Now there are these veils, shimmering like curtains,

The diaphanous satins of a January window
White as babies' bedding and glittering with dead breath. O ivory!

It must be a tusk there, a ghost column.
Can you not see I do not mind what it is.

Can you not give it to me?
Do not be ashamed--I do not mind if it is small.

Do not be mean, I am ready for enormity.
Let us sit down to it, one on either side, admiring the gleam,

The glaze, the mirrory variety of it.
Let us eat our last supper at it, like a hospital plate.

I know why you will not give it to me,
You are terrified

The world will go up in a shriek, and your head with it,
Bossed, brazen, an antique shield,

A marvel to your great-grandchildren.
Do not be afraid, it is not so.

I will only take it and go aside quietly.
You will not even hear me opening it, no paper crackle,

No falling ribbons, no scream at the end.
I do not think you credit me with this discretion.

If you only knew how the veils were killing my days.
To you they are only transparencies, clear air.

But my god, the clouds are like cotton.
Armies of them. They are carbon monoxide.

Sweetly, sweetly I breathe in,
Filling my veins with invisibles, with the million

Probable motes that tick the years off my life.
You are silver-suited for the occasion. O adding machine-----

Is it impossible for you to let something go and have it go whole?
Must you stamp each piece purple,

Must you kill what you can?
There is one thing I want today, and only you can give it to me.

It stands at my window, big as the sky.
It breathes from my sheets, the cold dead center

Where split lives congeal and stiffen to history.
Let it not come by the mail, finger by finger.

Let it not come by word of mouth, I should be sixty
By the time the whole of it was delivered, and to numb to use it.

Only let down the veil, the veil, the veil.
If it were death

I would admire the deep gravity of it, its timeless eyes.
I would know you were serious.

There would be a nobility then, there would be a birthday.
And the knife not carve, but enter

Pure and clean as the cry of a baby,
And the universe slide from my side.

Sylvia Plath

生日礼物

这是什么，布巾后藏着，是丑陋，还是美丽？
它闪着光，它有胸膛、有棱角么？

我断定它独一无二。我断定它是我所要的。
当我安静的烹饪时，我觉得它在看，我觉得它在想。

“这也就是我为之存在的那个么，
这就是选中的那个——有乌黑眼窝和一道胎记的那个么？

秤算面粉量，除去多余，
遵照规格、规格、规格。

这就是天使报喜日的那个么？
上帝，多可笑！”

可它发光，它没停下，我想它需要我。
我不在乎它是堆骨头或是一粒珍珠母钮扣。

总之，这一年，我对这份礼物不过分期望。
我毕竟还是意外活过来了。

那时，我多乐意以任何可能的方式自杀。
而今有了这布巾，像帘子一样闪光。

这一月里的窗台上透亮的绸缎
白净地如婴孩的睡眠，熠熠着死亡的呼吸。噢，象牙！

那必定是一暴牙——鬼魂的柱子。
你看不出么，我不在乎它是什么？

你不能把它给我么？
别羞愧——我不在乎如果它就一点点。

那不意味，我能应付庞大。
让我们坐下围着它，各一边，欣赏这光泽，

这釉亮，这镜化万变的它。
让我们用如医院餐具一样的它享用最后的晚餐。

我知道你为什么不愿把它给我。
你恐惧。

这个世界将在一声尖叫中毁灭，还有你的脑袋任它，
掌控、耍赖，一块古盾牌，

一个奇迹，相对你的宝贝子孙。
别害怕，并非如此。

我仅仅带着它安静地走开。
最后你甚至听不到我打开它，没纸沙沙声

没散落的缎带，没叫声。
我想你不会把裁决权归于我。

如你仅知道这布巾怎么消磨我的时光。
对你，它们不过是幻片、晴空。

可上帝，云朵好似棉花。
它们的军团。是一氧化碳。

美美地、美美地吸入。
填充我的血脉，无形地，用尽百万

似的尘埃，嘀嗒得从我生命中剥夺岁月。
你银装会宴。哦，时间机——

为你，那可能么？让一些离开，让它变成整个？
你必须狠踩每块紫色，

你必须尽可能干掉？
今天我仅需一件，只有你能把它给我。

它站在我的窗台，大如天空。
它喘气从我的床单，阴冷死穴

那儿破碎的生活复合，凝固成历史。
别让它通过手传手的邮件到来。

别让它通过嘴中话到来，我该六十岁。
到那时整个的它被送来，麻木地耗费它。

如果它是死亡，
请放下布巾、布巾、布巾。

我将敬仰它深沉的庄重，它永恒的目光。
我将知道你的肃穆。

于是那将是尊贵，那将是生日。
刀不再篆刻，而是刺入。

纯洁净化如婴孩啼哭。
宇宙从我身边滑过。


西尔薇亚·普拉斯