Rudyard

J.

Dear Valeria,

Only in my poems can I make my home.
I have found shelter in no other form.
There is no hearth I've pined for as my own. 
A tent could be uprooted in the storm.

Only in my poems can I make my home.
While I still know that I can find those doors
In wilderness, in woods, on streets or moors,
I fear no grief- no matter where I roam.

All the best,

Jan Jacob Slauerhoff

Teresa

Querida Valeria,

Memories do not change, and change is the law of existence. If our dead, the closest, the most beloved, were to return to us after a long absence and instead of the old, familiar trees were to find in our souls English gardens and stone walls -- that is to say, other loves, other tastes, other interests, they would gaze upon us sadly and tenderly for a moment, wiping away their tears, and then return to their tombs to rest.

Un abrazo muy fuerte,

Teresa de la Parra