The woman is perfected 
Her dead 

Body wears the smile of accomplishment, 
The illusion of a Greek necessity 

Flows in the scrolls of her toga, 
Her bare 

Feet seem to be saying: 
We have come so far, it is over. 

Each dead child coiled, a white serpent, 
One at each little 

Pitcher of milk, now empty 
She has folded 

Them back into her body as petals 
Of a rose close when the garden 

Stiffens and odors bleed 
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower. 

The moon has nothing to be sad about, 
Staring from her hood of bone. 

She is used to this sort of thing. 
Her blacks crackle and drag. 

 
La femme se perfectionne ses morts 

Le corps porte le sourire de l'accomplissement, l'illusion d'une 
nécessité grecque 

Écoulements dans les rouleaux de son toga, son nu 

Les pieds semblent indiquer: Nous sommes venus jusqu'ici, il plus de. 

Chaque enfant mort a lové, un serpent blanc, un à chacun peu 

Pichet de lait, maintenant vide elle s'est pliée 

Ils de nouveau dans son corps comme pétales d'une fin de rose quand 
le jardin 

Raidit et les odeurs saignent des gorges douces et profondes de la 
fleur de nuit. 

La lune n'a rien à être triste environ, regardant fixement de son 
capot d'os. 

Elle est employée à cette sorte de chose. Elle craquement et drague 
de noirs. 

 
Der Frau wird ihre Toten vervollkommnet 

Körper trägt das Lächeln der Vollendung, die Illusion einer 
griechischen Notwendigkeit 

Flüsse in die Rollen ihres toga, ihr bloßes 

Füße scheinen zu sagen: Wir sind bis jetzt, es sein rüber gekommen. 

Jedes tote Kind umwickelte, eine weiße Schlange, eine an jedem 
wenig 

Der Krug Milch, jetzt leer hat sie sich gefaltet 

Sie zurück in ihren Körper als Blumenblätter eines Roseende wenn 
der Garten 

Versteift sich und Gerüche bluten von den süssen, tiefen Kehlen der 
Nachtblume. 

Der Mond hat nichts, traurig zu sein ungefähr und starrt von ihrer 
Haube des Knochens an. 

SieIST an diese Art der Sache gewöhnt. Sie Schwarze knistert und 
schleppt. 

 
A mulher é aperfeiçoada seus mortos 

O corpo desgasta o sorriso da realização, o illusion de uma 
necessidade grega 

Fluxos nos scrolls de seu toga, seu desencapado 

Os pés parecem dizer: Nós viemos assim distante, ele sobre. 

Cada criança inoperante bobinou, uma serpente branca, uma em cada um 
pouco 

Jarro do leite, vazio tem-se dobrado agora 

Eles para trás em seu corpo como as pétalas de um fim da rosa quando 
o jardim 

Endurece-se e os odores sangram das gargantas doces, profundas da flor 
da noite. 

A lua não tem nada ser sad aproximadamente, olhando fixamente de sua 
capa do osso. 

É usada a esta sorte da coisa. Pretos crackle e arrasta. 

 
Perfeccionan a la mujer sus muertos 

El cuerpo usa la sonrisa de la realización, la ilusión de una 
necesidad griega 

Flujos en las volutas de su toga, su pelado 

Los pies se parecen decir: Hemos venido hasta ahora, él encima. 

Cada niño muerto arrolló, una serpiente blanca, una en cada uno 
poco 

Jarra de leche, ahora vacía ella ha doblado 

Ellos nuevamente dentro de su cuerpo como pétalos de un cierre de la 
rosa cuando el jardín 

Se atiesa y los olores sangran de las gargantas dulces, profundas de 
la flor de la noche. 

La luna no tiene nada ser triste alrededor, mirando fijamente de su 
capilla del hueso. 

La utilizan a esta clase de cosa. Ella crujido y fricción de los 
negros. 

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(These are public search results on the terms: 'Sylvia Plath: Edge poem')

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