Sylvia Plath:  Dying

Ash, ash -

You poke and stir.

Flesh, bone, there is nothing there-

 

A cake of soap

A wedding ring

A gold filling

 

Herr God, Herr Lucifer

Beware,

Beware.

 

Out of the ash

I rise with my red hair

And I eat men like air

.

به قناري کوچکي دل بسته بود.

احمد شاملو

A slayer was crying

He was in love with a petite canary