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She wants to look beautiful after she is dead. She wants people to admire her: Never has there been a more beautiful dead child. Now her room is dark. Only a distant street lamp glows faintly through the window. Now she no longer cares whether she dies "on foreign soil" or in her own garden. She steps onto the windowsill, holds herself fast to the cord of the shutter, and examines her shadowlike reflection in the mirror one last time. She finds herself lovely. A trace of regret mingles with her determination. "It's over," she says, quietly, and feels dead already, even before her feet leave the windowsill.
Unica Zürn, Dark Spring
A rustic spring
This veil of melancholia
She steps onto the windowsill, holds herself fast to the cord of the shutter, and examines her shadowlike reflection in the mirror one last time. She finds herself lovely. A trace of regret mingles with her determination. ‘It’s over,’ she says quietly, and falls dead already, even before her feet leave the windowsill.”
Unica Zürn, from Dark Spring, translation Caroline Rupprecht
𝒜𝒸𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌𝓁𝑒𝒹𝑔𝑒 𝒾𝓉 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓂𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽 𝒾𝓉…