Classic Poem

I write, interrogated, hope

Amid the embarrassment of the siesta,
I wonder: - What is this obsession,
where restless and anxious alive?
Has long write, write, write,
and nobody answers me.
- What has come the steam! Comes the mailman,
greets my door on the threshold;
I get books, newspapers, postcards ...
And does not give me the letters I want it!
All saw him, rush; revolve
around the large leather bag,
ask - I have letters - And sigh;?
receive them, smile and look at me;
I hope, I hope, I hope ...
Guests, reading, retire
and the postman leaves.
- What is this obsession
in which, in shadow solitude I drown?
Interrogated, interrogated,
but nobody answers.
When will they come? What will I? ... And I think
on the bold adventure of travel:
How small a letter! The sea how immense!
And what treachery the wave!
Perhaps out of pity for my fate,
as they arrive without kisses or caresses
were left purposely in the way,
fearful of giving bad news.
Perhaps, for my good, some had
Under an enchanted amulet,
a bold hand and stopped her,
Nema broken and defiled the secret.
What will bring, whether they come from? A harbinger
dark? A tragedy? A bad? A duel?
Are the woes of the wreck?
Does despair? Does the grief?
Will they come full of encouragement and illusions?
How sad and melancholy?
Will I get relics and prayers?
Will they say I'm good at that yet?
Will I see stains tears in their lines?
Will I ever guess emotions
traits in handwriting?

Necessary is that grief and joy,
in this sea of ÔÇïÔÇïuncertainties, grappling.
Oh, arriving, arriving! I say one day ...
And I say the other day: why not come ...!