Mom’s solitude becomes an antiquarian shadow, lately a deserted onomatopoeia accompanies her round the clock she asks her drowsy sighs for a chance to go further the winter sky sketches an obituary of silvery tears dad retires to his new bedroom solemnly making mom’s absence his pillow with soft care in the sepulcher, in sepia dark, in eternity in the absence of packed solitariness may be his body accepts a new world of hope mom prays now and crosses over the Red Sea.