My darling, you write me charming letters from your bed,
They caress me, and the darkness covers us,
And your luminous whispers are in my ear.
You call me, and I come to you as I read,
Eager to give you to my hands,
And be lost upon your breast.
But often next day when I re-read a letter I dream,
I wonder, was not your husband, while you wrote it,
In the next room rising from his bath,
And sprinkling rice powder over himself
Making ready to come to you?
Were not perhaps the words you wrote
Your torch to set yourself in flames?
Did not the last echoes
Of your call to your lover
Help to sweep you not too passively
To accustomed clamorous arms?