Newsletter

(after N. Lenau)

Wind a withered sheet

They brought me moving the window -
It is death that sends me
No envelope-this letter.

I'll keep it, I'll stretch it

Between those sheets,
What I have from other times
From the hand of my darling.

How the tree forgets its leaf

What on the wind was sent to me,
So she forgot maybe
These sheets of her writing.

The words of dead love

I'm guilty of it,
Proven to lie
I'm asking to extinguish their lives.

Their sweet futility

I can't bear to set it on fire,
Although I'm so sad
That I can't die instantly.

I will keep it bitter

And the luck of these sheets,
In the pain of the old loss
Reciting me back;

Only the gentle news of death,

I added the sad sheet:
Death heals any wound,
Giving rest to passions.