niech się dzień święty święci
11 lutego - to dobry dzień, aby umrzeć. Sylvia Plath, Wintering This is easy time, there is nothing doing. I have whirled the midwife's extractor, I have my honey, Six jars of it, Six cat's eyes in the wine cellar, Wintering in a dark without window At the heart of house Next to the last tenant's rancid jam And the bottles of empty glitters - Sir So-and-so's gin. This is the room I have never been in. This is the room I could never breathe in. The black bunched in there like a bat, No light But the torch and its faint Chinese yellow on appalling objects - Black asininity. Decay. Possession. It is they who own me. Neither cruel nor indifferent, Only ignorant. This is the time of hanging on for the bees - the bees So slow I hardly know them, Filing like soldiers To the syrup tin To make up for the honey I've taken. Tate and Lyle keeps them going, The refined snow. It is Tate and Lyle they live on, instead of flowers. They take it