by Breyten Breytenbach
your letter is delightful, larger and lighter
than thoughts of a flower when the dream
is the earth of the garden,
as your letter opens
there is an unfolding of sky, of word from the outside
of ample spaces,
I slept in green pastures
I lay on the ridge of the valley of the shadow of death
during the last watch of night
listening to the condemned
being led down corridors underground,
how they sing,
their breaths in their mouths
like residents
about to quite a burning city, how they sing
their breaths like shackles,
how they sing
they who will jolt from obscurity to the light
they who will be posted to no destination,
terror fills me at the desecration
the table before me, in the presence of my enemies,
is bare; I have ash on my head,
my cup is empty,
I fled to your letter, to read
that the small orange tree is a mass of white blossoms
opening with the sun,
I could smell it on the balcony,
I can smell you
more delicious, lighter than thoughts of a flower
in this dismal night,
I will be suspended by the sky of your words,
allow me to live in your letter
all the days of my life
envoi,
your letter is delightful, stretching out lighter
than thoughts of a flower when the dream
is the earth of a garden,
as your letter opens
there is an unfolding of sky, of word from the outside
of memory
