I am Sylvia Plath and decide to commit a suicide
Before night, before midnight, before any incident spoils my intention that goes totally upward, or any single communication proves it is life: generally  moves on haphazard, neither do I want be introduced as a horrible criminal never been merciful to grandiose thought in keeping self magnified or words very elegance. Away… don’t look at me in this way since reality is so horrified, since I’m a goddess with only one eye  lying beside the lake and playing with water flowing on the line of the green jungle what we call it life to shot the fingers on heavenly drops and sing the song of eternity  to confess: I’m not as honest as other gods attached to the mirror of the wall with four eyes to reflect the  realities of  people of come and go, creating   flickering and shaking atmosphere over my sights that makes me semi- blind when  three other eyes remaining behind the mirror and  one eye -goddess is not trustworthy enough in exposing the  murmurings  of  the woman reposing on river side in pledge of tuning the song of solitude with silent outcry:
La  La  La                  La La La                       La  La La     *

                                                             My Love:
How creative you are, not cruel at all, just very creative in exploring the long distance between doves of love and very cunning in employing people to excavate a chasm of agony, torturer and blood between you and I… I’ me Sylvia Plath and decide to commit a suicide, before maroon crimson night, before children know what their mother really decide, before horrible fish rises abruptly inward to devour my heart or demolish all my beauties of ladylike in shadow of  your last statement warned me  “ for what  you are still in dark?”
Dark! What a brilliant statement in the first and last and lost time, on duration of nights insomnia or feeling nausea when autumnal  rain attacked the yellow red leaves to fall to forecast that  unity is so far. When nights’ owl very kindly repeats your heart  dark…dark…when the mirror broken, eyes  spatter on all over the world, god and goddess remain eye less, completely blind, and our last reminder…your last medal on my heart still dark.
I am Sylvia Plath and decide to commit a suicide.

When the birds of spring sang with joy
To hail the blowing breeze pampering the face rapidly with moisturizing coy
When rays of the shine stand very kind to make the life neither hot nor too cold
Life rushes through the mobility of less anxiety or creating abundant tumult  
Shining novelty on juvenile tress’ robe bestow jubilee to those hurry to work
In confronting the bundle you expect to parole
Life is so lovely what are you feeling for?
- “ seems… GARLIC…?”
The most beautified Criollo … ladies of shadow…listen to spring and smooth song of returning swallows
- “ sounds GARLIC..?”
Sender of magic rockets to Apollo… ladies of shallow…   smell of plant mingled with heavenly blossom of sharp blue, it is a time to define the final intentions supposed to follow…
- “ feels GARLIC…?”
Drowsy, numb, with mouths open, shoulders down like zombies out of tomb… who are you? mighty dancers with delicate willow with strong sense of itching on our marrow
- “…ladies of GARLIC…”
Nobody comes, nobody goes, life is so hollow, what it supposed to be full of energy …you You talk a lot…just go!
smell strange not from corpses but from walls, earth, and ceiling… what is it?  
- “….life is …GARLIC…”

Singing the song of still never being
Deep deep in the ceremony of wind
Swirling and swirling more than a typhoon without any wing
Deep and deep under the dust green emerald hot
Roots in and petals swift frozen cuts
What drinks necessarily from the bottle of a lovers’ heart
Dirge dire nasty ecstasy belonging to no creature
Except whom filled with wine
White, white or crimson like a passionate loves  
Talking to you my frozen blossom
Wide soft  
Without hearing you without knowing me
Without any incident happening to shape our way
Bright.

when I saw you for the first time you were a dove on the branches shuddering with the sudden breath of sprite as white as pure snowballs
and………………………………………………………………………I
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days after visiting you reminding me a nightingale on the same branches singing glamorously although  comprehensible on some occasions and not very tangible on other times: hovering you upon the sky, upon the roof  was enchanting somehow
and......................................................­........................................................I
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later on, a tornado encapsulated the flight of a swallow in habit of severe immigration from the land uneasy to far and far while seeing the branches empty and songs silent tortuous the sight
and.............................................................­.................................................I
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years past and considering those days make me to reproach myself  that how wrong I was. only a butterfly sat on our written scriptures for a while never promise to stay a bit longer. Born  by spring will be die in winter night,
and.............................................................­...............................................I
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