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ouija - sylvia plath كلمات أغنية

it is a chilly god, a god of shades
rises to the glass from his black fathoms
at the window, those unborn, those undone
assemble with the frail paleness of moths
an envious phosphorescence in their wings
vermilions, bronzes, colors of the sun
in the coal fire will not wholly console them
imagine their deep hunger, deep as the dark
for the blood_heat that would ruddle or reclaim
the glass mouth sucks blood_heat from my forefinger
the old god dribbles, in return, his words

the old god, too, writes aureatе poetry
in tarnished modes, maundеring among the wastes
fair chronicler of every foul declension
age, and ages of prose, have uncoiled
his talking whirlwind, abated his excessive temper
when words, like locusts, drummed the darkening air
and left the cobs to rattle, bitten clean
skies once wearing a blue, divine hauteur
ravel above us, mistily descend
thickening with motes, to a marriage with the mire

he hymns the rotten queen with saffron hair
who has saltier aphrodisiacs
than virgins’ tears. that bawdy queen of death
her wormy couriers are at his bones
still he hymns juice of her, hot nectarine
i see him, h_rny_skinned and tough, construe
what flinty pebbles the ploughblade upturns
as ponderable tokens of her love
he, godly, doddering, spells
no succinct gabriel from the letters here
but floridly, his amorous nostalgias

- ouija

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