Kyrie by Tomas Tranströmer
Perhaps it’s better not talk to about it.
My manuscript is home now, all the way from Edinburgh. I look at your notes, M., and—
You should see me here. Clutching the papers to my chest.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, and perhaps I’ll never tire of saying it—
Because, how did I get so lucky? How was it that you found me? How—
I am so grateful I don’t think I deserve all of this.
Maybe we are one person. In another universe. In another life. To have them split us—
I spent years without you. And now you are my friend. My sister. My kindred spirit.
I said, the world doesn’t give answers—
But it leaves me mysteries, and light, and grace, and you.
At times my life suddenly opens its eyes in the dark.
A feeling of masses of people pushing blindly
through the streets, excitedly, toward some miracle,
while I remain here and no one sees me.
It is like the child who falls asleep in terror
listening to the heavy thumps of his heart.
For a long, long time till morning puts his light in the locks
and the doors of darkness open.