If the moon on the skies does not roam,
But cools, like a seal above,
My dead husband enters the
To read the letters of love.
He remembers the box, made of oak,
With the lock, very secret and odd,
And spreads through a floor the
Of his feet in the iron bond.
He watches the times of the
And the signatures' blurry set.
Hasn't had he sufficiently
And pains in this word until that?
