Urgent Mail

 

He was no more than a courier

On his back a sack of letters

He had a bicycle

A route

And a cap

He was no more than a courier

 

He returned home exhausted

And sang

He sang alone and solo

He was individual and eternal

 

He sent all the letters

From himself to no one

 

He was no more than a courier

A sky, a house

A woman putting the sun in her children’s pocket

He willed, and it was so

 

Then she decreed

From her hand the sea surged 

From her robe cascaded fields and songs 

 

She decreed

And her children grew in the soil of time

 

He was no more than a courier

But he developed his craft

The prophets became his letters

 

Who is knocking on the door?

A girl said to her neighbour:

Beware

Perhaps he is a new Messenger.