My dear Zdenka, I am sending you three words in place of a morning greeting. I can still hear your songs echoing in the half-light, and it feels as sweet as if I had come from a fairy tale.
I don’t feel like writing. I’d rather be dreaming.
“Get up, my dear friend, and come with me!” I feel like saying to you.
I travelled with your flowers and your candle, as if I had collected a little seawater into a nutshell.
But the sea remained in the darkness far behind me, singing its songs of beautiful sadness.
At the station, my poor sweet Francis was waiting for me and saw many a train come and go.
He had kind eyes, and said, “The boy was late, oh was he late.”
And then we talked about you for a very, very, very long time.