What would it take to be me
and at what stake let it free.
Has no one known me as better
than my own midnight letter.
Where have I hid it in the day?
Hadn’t shed tears when last one left.
But an eyeful for those
with whom I hadn’t slept,
and to her who hid our night in the first floor,
Oh yes, another who rid me off the back door.
When things stood still, I escaped the most.
This, to the traveller inside I toast.
To the mask-seller; to the storyteller.
To the dreamer of verse; to an humorist at worst.
To the hidden better, I toast this midnight letter.