Wooden box

A dark red old-fashioned wooden box

Through twenty years of wind and rain

Sitting in a corner of the years

The vicissitudes of the lacquered face

Seems to recount the past

The small wooden box

Once followed its owner to the north and south

Once listened to the sound of steel rails hitting

Once shared the joy of the opening of the railroad

It has traveled from place to place

Finally stranded in the harbor of dreams

And its exhaustion

And now, carefully examining

The wooden box stained by time

Like a father's eyes gazing

And as if I could smell the faint fragrance

I know that this is my father's blessing

To warm my child in the world of sorrow and suffering