The letter

With almost a flat open

I still could not see

The words in the letter

Bestowed upon me


Seldom had I yearned to be

At the peak of staggering mountains

For I often found myself

In hollow valleys

Of dry, echoing lands


An invisible thirst to cherish

And be cherished:

The bastard hidden at

The castle’s cabin everlastingly waiting

For his father’s incoming call.


Son come to me

May my lack of pleas

Be repented, for you

Are not perfect

But you have always remained merciful.


I will come to your hands father.

Merely open them to me.

Let me Listen to your Cry

Your Demand for Me

For that is purely just

 What I need to hear


Can a call be a letter?

Bestowed upon me

The flat lay there open

But I still couldn’t reach


And so the bastard’s plea

Remained unsaid.

He craved to read the letter

That remained unread

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