The letters

(Imagen: Vista de Lisboa desde el "Castillo de San Jorge"/ Vue de la ville de Lisbonne, sur la place du "Castelo de São Jorge")

Leonard Cohen

(encore une fois)

You never liked to get
the letters that I sent.

But now you've got the gist
of what my letters meant.

You're reading them again,
the ones you didn't burn.

You press them to your lips,
my pages of concern.

I said there'd been a flood.
I said there's nothing left.
I hoped that you would come.
I gave you my address.

Your story was so long,
the plot was so intense,
it took you years to cross
the lines of self-defense.

The wounded forms appear:
the loss, the full extent;
and simple kindness here,
the solitude of strength.

You walk into my room.
You stand there at my desk,
begin your letter to
the one who's coming next.