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. |
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