(Sylvia Sylvia, esa letra griega nos une para deletrearte, es tu hijo muerto y el mio aún en huevo, ambas fuera de uno, quemadas antes de tiempo.

Sylvia Sylvia, separo tus palabras de las hojas mixtas y las fosas se desocupan para recibir tus restos. Cada seis meses tu flequito aparece en mi cuadrícula y Syvlia Sylvia, me ahogas con tu tinta.

Ya ves que no hay melancolía ni soledad, aunque estés oculta entre las hojas podridas de un libro primera edición. Disculpas Sylvia Sylvia, porque hoy ando con un rayo atravesado, que no me deja oscurecer y una lengua ladrona que se ha llevado todo mi dictado.)

"I Am Vertical" de Sylvia Plath

But I would rather be horizontal. I am not a tree with my root in the soil Sucking up minerals and motherly love So that each March I may gleam into leaf, Nor am I the beauty of a garden bed Attracting my share of Ahs and spectacularly painted, Unknowing I must soon unpetal. Compared with me, a tree is immortal And a flower-head not tall, but more startling, And I want the one's longevity and the other's daring.

Tonight, in the infinitesimallight of the stars, The trees and the flowers have been strewing their cool odors. I walk among them, but none of them are noticing. Sometimes I think that when I am sleeping I must most perfectly resemble them-- Thoughts gone dim. It is more natural to me, lying down. Then the sky and I are in open conversation, And I shall be useful when I lie down finally: Then the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have time for me.