" They thought death was worth it, but I Have a self to recover, a queen. Is she dead, is she sleeping ? Where has she been, With her lion-red body, her wings of glass ? Now she is flying More terrible than she ever was, red Scar in the sky, red comet Over the engine that killed her——— The mausoleum, the wax house. 6 "

― Sylvia Plath , The Collected Poems