769. Air Mail, by Tomas Transtromer

I carried the letter through the city
in search of a mail box.
In the great forest of stone and concrete
fluttered that lost butterly.

The stamp's flying carpet
the address's staggering letters
plus my sealed-in truth
at this moment floating above the ocean.

The Atlantic's crawling silver.
The banks of clouds. The fishing boat
like a spit-out olive pit.
And the pale scar of its wake.

Down here work goes slowly.
Often I steal a glance at the clock.
The shadows of the trees are black ciphers
in the greedy silence.

Truth is there on the ground
but no one dares to take it.
Truth lies on the street.
No one makes it his own.

(trans Samuel Charters)

Source: For the Living and the Dead

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