There she attained enlightenment through poetry, here we dangle with the baleful probability of God
We go to movies and dinner halls - (and think that she was odd)
Life was pain for her..
Here it is nothing but bubbles of joy that will burst...
The lady won, the lady with the odd, magical thirst
From the flowers of life she made a wreath-
And then she closed herself to breathe
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
It's a great tribute to her, Ankita (by the way, that's a pretty name) . If Sylvia Plath were alive to read it, I'm sure she'd enjoy it. K.R.K.