Dear girl, as I have told you
in the last letter I sent you,
there are many visions in the Library of Intangible Feelings,
stored above thick branches, under vast and cavernous ceilings.
You could pore over them for hours,
finish a pot of coffee, sweets and sours,
stack plates beside you on the long table stretching
into the shadows like a hungry fledgling.
These are the ones I like:
flowers growing from weeds;
a butterfly living a half-day longer, sunset on its golden wing,
as it slips through the breezes, and coaxes them to sing.
If you can remember them,
it would make me pleased.
Yours sincerely – one lost in his wanderings,
longing for cake and idle ponderings.