You delivered the letters —
Be blissful. They are being read.
Over them they weep, they kiss them and embrace them.
It was not you who wrote
And it is not yours they receive.
Yours is to distribute,
Not to mix up and to remember,
So as to reach all the addressees.

In the intimacies of feelings you are a go-between,
In the envelopes a confession,
Love’s flame, someone’s sorrow…
You are a pipe for water,
A wire for current.

And do not grieve that your name is not
In the postmark, nor in any of the corners.
None among people will even recall it.
But until the times it will be hidden
By the reliable archive of eternity.