I feel sorry, my darling letters,
It might hurt to be written down by strikes
To be pushed down in a drum beat
To be keyboarded in a Marsh rhythm
It should be really painful to be insolently hit
It should be heartbreaking, I assume
It should be sad to dream of being whispered by a plume
I am so sorry that from now on
And much, much later
We will be writing you down on virtual paper
Missing the ink aroma
Our sons will never long for.