…and in me an old woman rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me, / … / Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness. / In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman / Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

Sylvia Plath, „Mirror“




I’ll never find out now
What A thought of me.
If B ever forgave me in the end.
Why C pretended everything was fine.
What part D played in E’s silence.
What F had been expecting, if anything.
Why G forgot when she knew perfectly well.
What H had to hide.
What I wanted to add.
If my being around
meant anything
to J and K and the rest of the alphabet.

Wisława Szymborska