If the moon on the skies does not roam, <br />But cools, like a seal above, <br />My dead husband enters the home <br />To read the letters of love. <br /> <br />He remembers the box, made of oak, <br />With the lock, very secret and odd, <br />And spreads through a floor the stroke <br />Of his feet in the iron bond. <br /> <br />He watches the times of the meetings <br />And the signatures' blurry set. <br />Hasn't had he sufficiently grievings <br />And pains in this word until that?<br /><br />Anna Akhmatova<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/if-the-moon-on-the-skies-does-not-roam/
