Dear One,
"Dear One,
I have long postponed the words,
to write them from my deepest chords,
for I so far have thought to me,
What's with all this mystery?
Why not let it all be known?
Why tell lies to have truth shown?
As they were weeping your demise,
I myself were a disguise
of shadows lengthened
over valleys,
of ashes scattered
over stories
which I've told to tell a lie
that I'm dead and yet don't die,
that I live and yet don't sigh,
and in sleep I never cry.
Oh, but weeps are long and dry, let me tell you
- or let me tell I -
and from tears I drink my breath,
and from dreams I smell my death
to never pass, in vain to stay
and tell me secrets of its game.
But who are you - and who am I?
I've been wrong for all this time
to think that I might be of use
- the shadow is then but a fuse;
And all our searches, in the end,
With empty answers have been met.
Yet there's one more question left:
Is there really no regret?"
All those borders, never bent
All those letters, never sent