THE PRINCESS ANSWERS HER MAIL

1.

I am in a far place.
The cliffs of ice are blue and tall
And very beautiful.

The sun is small.
Remember when our windows
Filled with ice

And we pressed fingers to it?
The sun is like that, so small.
So quick to disappear.

Of course, the ice palace
Is all I could hope for, and more.
My cat has turned vicious.

And hides under the throne.
I am become a connoisseur
Of shadows, the blue ones,

The purple.
My crown shines moon-blue in this light.
I never wear it.

2.

There is no shortage of suitors.
Soon the kingdom will be emptied of men.
My dear sister, I pity you.

Do you know what it is like
To see them setting out from the far shore
Shining like moonbeams,

To hear their horses, tied to the dark trees,
Neighing, to hear their hooves hard on the earth?
They never reach me.

In the mornings, when I go down to the shore,
I can see the ice crackling beneath their feet,
I can see them sink,
I can see the water go over
The love tokens they grasp in their hands.
They float by like logs.

Do you know what it is like?
To be royal? To be the eldest and royal?

3.

Occasionally, someone arrives at my door.
One came with a raven wing, a gold apple,
And a magic key.

He left, seeking the spinning wheel
Which weaves the long, cool threads of rain.
It has been clear and dry.

On the far shore, there are others,
Preparing to cross.

4.

In all this solitude, am I approaching myself,
The farthest country of all?
Have I seen the sweet face of peace?

There is no silence here.
I hear the low sounds, the moans
Of those between the hot sun of home

And this shore
Stretching their shadows toward me.
In vain.

They destroy my happiness
Which would be the joy of forgetfulness,
Of being entirely forgotten.

I am no longer lonely.
I have left myself in the throne room.
There I carved myself carefully

Out of the fine, blue ice.
There I stand.
I have often cut my skin to feel the pain.

I am no longer beautiful,
Though the men who come here say I am.
My dear sister,

I am bitter.
Today, I imagined bees in the sun.
Green leaves,

The sound of your skirts on the grass.
If I could only grow old!
Behind you, the seasons wheel in their arcs.

Time lifts your hair and drops it.
Your hand on the table wrinkles,
Grows clear as glass.

How I envy the brown spots
Which mottle your hands!
Your children, who are older than you were

When I left.
Are you still alive?
Is father?

The young men continue to come.
They are not more than children.
If no letters come from home,

I will know you are gone.
I will continue to write to you.
Sister, I tell you

There are many ways of entering death.