如果月亮在天空上不漫游，
而是冷漠的，像高高在上的一个图章，
我死去的丈夫进家来
读情书。
他记得这个盒子，橡木做的，
有一把锁，非常秘密而怪异，
地板上蔓延开来的
他戴着锁链的脚击声。
他看着会见的时间
签上模糊的图章。
直到那时，难道他都没有使用
极大的痛苦和悲伤这样的词吗？
If the moon on the skies does not roam,
But cools, like a seal above,
My dead husband enters the home
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 stroke
Of his feet in the iron bond.
He watches the times of the meetings
And the signatures' blurry set.
Hasn't had he sufficiently grievings
And pains in this word until that?
