Oh Tabitha, by this time you must have found the letter, wept with rage and insulted the memory of my mother
calling her a rotten bitch and mother of curs,
and you must have drunk afternoon tea, all by yourself alone, gazing at my old shoes, empty now forever
and you can't remember my sickness, my nightly dreams,my meals
Without cursing me aloud as though I were still there fussing about the tropics, the Coringhi cookies the poisonous fevers that did me so much harm and the frightful English, whom I detest still.
Tabitha, here's the truth: What a huge night! what a solitary earth!
I've gone back to the lonely bedrooms
I can throw my trousers and shirts upon the floor; there are no clothe hangers in my room, no pictures of anybody on the walls.
How much of the darkness in my soul would I give to regain you
and how threatening seem to me now the names of the months,
to eating cold meals in cafe's and once more and how lugubrious a drum sound the name of the winter has!
Later you will find buried near the cocon6tree the knife that I hid for the fear that you'd kill me
and now suddenly I I should like to smell its kitchen steel
Used to the weight of your hand and the castre of your foot.