Slow room in bittered, they closed you, I closed you,
still wanting you, you know it,
and today from whose hands will your keys hang.
From these walls we demolish the last
few pavilions that were singing.
The foliage has grown. I see peasants working,
their backs loaded with success.
And the elapsed month and a half are enough
for one shroud, even too much.
Room with four entrances and no exit,
today you have the blues, I speak to you
in all your six dialects.
Now I won't have to violate what you are to me,
never; now we will not breach
any other beloved door.
July was, then, the ninth month. Love
told an odd sound. And the sweetness
gave to every shroud, even too much.