Where the yew trees blow like hydras,
The tree of life and the tree of life
Unloosing their moons, month after month, to no purpose.
The blood flood is the flood of love,
The absolute sacrifice.
It means: no more idols but me,
Me and you.
So, in their sulfur loveliness, in their smiles
These mannequins lean tonight
In Munich, morgue between Paris and Rome,
Naked and bald in their furs,
Orange lollies on silver sticks,
Intolerable, without minds.
The snow drops its pieces of darkness,
Nobody's about. In the hotels
Hands will be opening doors and setting
Plath ends this section with a final damning conclusion as to what the mannequins in both their plastic and human forms amount to.
The Munich Mannequins