MIRROR

A fotografia não é boa, mas o poema de Sylvia Plath é. A angústia trágica da autora parece-me estar bem presente no final do texto: In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman / Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

A parte engraçada foi ver o olhar inquisitivo de quem entrava no Museu Olímpico, em Lausanne. O que raio estará ele a fotografar?, enquanto eu quase me despenhava no espelho...

MIRROR
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see, I swallow immediately.
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike
I am not cruel, only truthful —
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me.
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.