An old Turkish box.

The sun beamed on the sea bed, 

    As he traced his fingers on the book he just read.

Coarse crystals of sand clinged onto him just like his past;

 Which he'd reckoned wouldn't last. 

There sat an old Turkish box,

  which had the ashes of her dead corpse. 

Her skin, bone and smile that had melted into grey ashes.

 Nonetheless he never tried to tear his lashes. 

"Always" she used to say. 

He threw the bygone box to the sea with all might, 

  "Always" he said, and sure did it seem right.