No, Milena, I beg you once again to invent another possibility for
my writing to you. You mustn't go to the post office in vain,
even your little postman--who is he?--mustn't do it,
nor should even the postmistress be asked unnecessarily.
If you can find no other possibility, then one must put up with it,
but at least make a little effort to find one.
Last night I dreamed about you. What happened in detail I can
hardly remember, all I know is that we kept merging into one
another. I was you, you were me. Finally you somehow caught fire.
Remembering that one extinguished fire with clothing, I took
an old coat and beat you with it.
But again the transmutations
began and it went so far that you were no longer even there,
instead it was I who was on fire and it was also I who beat the
fire with the coat.
But the beating didn't help and it only confirmed my old
fear that such things can't extinguish a fire.
In the meantime, however, the fire brigade arrived and somehow
you were saved.
But you were different from before, spectral, as though
drawn with chalk against the dark, and you fell, lifeless or
perhaps having fainted from joy at having been saved,
into my arms.
But here too the uncertainty of transmutability entered,
perhaps it was I who fell into someone's arms.