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Sylvia Plath The Sunday lamb cracks in its fat. The fat Sacrifices its opacity1. . . . A window， holy gold. The fire makes it precious， The same fire Melting the tallow heretics， Over the cicatrix of Poland， burnt-out Germany. They do not die. Mouth-ash， ash of eye. They settle. On the high That emptied one man into space The ovens glowed like heavens， incandescent6. It is a heart， O golden child the world will kill and eat. 点击  收听单词发音
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