Born green we were <br />to this flawed garden, <br />but in speckled thickets, warted as a toad, <br />spitefully skulks our warden, <br />fixing his snare <br />which hauls down buck, cock, trout, till all most fair <br />is tricked to faulter in split blood. <br /> <br />Now our whole task's to hack <br />some angel-shape worth wearing <br />from his crabbed midden where all's wrought so awry <br />that no straight inquiring <br />could unlock <br />shrewd catch silting our each bright act back <br />to unmade mud cloaked by sour sky. <br /> <br />Sweet salts warped stem <br />of weeds we tackle towards way's rank ending; <br />scorched by red sun <br />we heft globed flint, racked in veins' barbed bindings; <br />brave love, dream <br />not of staunching such strict flame, but come, <br />lean to my wound; burn on, burn on.<br /><br />Sylvia Plath<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/firesong-2/
