Rival

Se a lua sorrisse, teria a sua cara.
Você também deixa a mesma impressão
De algo lindo, mas aniquilante.
Ambos são peritos em roubar a luz alheia.
Nela, a boca aberta se lamenta ao mundo; a sua é sincera,
E na primeira chance faz tudo virar pedra.
Acordo num mausoléu; te vejo aqui,
Tamborilando na mesa de mármore, procurando cigarros,
Desconfiado como uma mulher, não tão nervoso assim,
E louco para dizer algo irrespondível.
A lua, também, humilha seus súditos,
Mas de dia ela é ridícula.
Suas reclamações, por outro lado,
Pousam na caixa do correio com regularidade encantadora,
Brancas e limpas, expansivas como monóxido de carbono.
Nem um dia se passa sem notícias suas,
Vadiando pela África, talvez, mas pensando em mim.

PLATH; Sylvia

BIG MISTAKE

You don't cry over me, but you try to reach me and you lie by my feet.

What Tarot Card Are You?

You are The Empress

Beauty, happiness, pleasure, success, luxury, dissipation.

The Empress is associated with Venus, the feminine planet, so it represents,
beauty, charm, pleasure, luxury, and delight. You may be good at home
decorating, art or anything to do with making things beautiful.

The Empress is a creator, be it creation of life, of romance, of art or business. While the Magician is the primal spark, the idea made real, and the High Priestess is the one who gives the idea a form, the Empress is the womb where it gestates and grows till it is ready to be born. This is why her symbol is Venus, goddess of beautiful things as well as love. Even so, the Empress is more Demeter, goddess of abundance, then sensual Venus. She is the giver of Earthly gifts, yet at the same time, she can, in anger withhold, as Demeter did when her daughter, Persephone, was kidnapped. In fury and grief, she kept the Earth barren till her child was returned to her.

What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.

Edge

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.

PLATH; Sylvia