At the café of inspiration
where lady death
has her reserved table
and where poets speak German
like a dark curse ,
I had a date with you, Sylvia ...
Do you remember those
ambiguous seasons
when passion celebrated nothing more
that the burial of habits ?
In the afterlife ,dogs without collar
have that sad look of ectoplasms
in their sunday worse ...
Sylvia,that day ,I had this funeral bouquet
made of drizzle and sorrow .
Desire to steal your post-mortem fragrance
in my arms ...
Tell you the latest news about gravestones
in love with their shadows ...
At the café of inspiration our doubles
are faithful to the rendezvous .
Sylvia, you\'ve been gone for a long time,
long before i escaped from this damp jail,
abyss who hated my genius ...
Sylvia, your incurable lines
have the beauty of those children
lost on a rainy day on the hell gate bridge...
Your shattered poetry ,
dancing on the open mouth
of a musical gas chamber...
Jack put down his bag .
The road led only behind doors
that were locked with a rusty treble clef ...
Sylvia, we had a meeting
at the café of inspiration
where the poets speak German
under blue, red and dead
neon lights ...
You have the pallid face
of that sweet dame
who will take me to her palace
on one of Saturn\'s moon ...
But all this is just lunacy
and schizoid mood whims .
I promise you, we won\'t talk about god ...
( Dedicated to Sylvia Plath .American poetess )