Explore "Letter" by Carlos Drummond de Andrade on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
I wish I could write this with the right words, as trite as ever yet apt to tremble if touched by passion.
Cutting dark tunnels through clay and shadow, my letter would tell you I'm fine and still love you, and love more with each day in my twisted and hesitant way, and I hope you answer, and please don't delay, and I'd ask for a tiny something just to afford you the pleasure of giving. It would tell you about the weather over here, how the rains have stopped, the kids are in school, a recent invention (still being perfected)can read people's hearts, but we all hope to see you again soon.
Not too soon, though.
As it gets shorter, time's becoming strangely lengthy.
What bolted yesterday like a fired-up steed freezes into a marble sphinx today, and even sleep, which was sweet and absurd, now sleeps while awake on a somber plain.
The only swift thing is the fleeting dream of sending loving news when there's no love to give or receive, when there's just memory, or still less, dust, or less yet, nothing, nothing of nothing in everything, and more nothing in me, and it's no use waking up whoever's resting on the treeless hill.
But this is a letter.