The codebreaker
regards the greatest mysteries
as demands on his time.

Chooses one,
inserts his intellect
like a key and hears it break
as the box swings open.

Inside,
a rose,
a bottle of sand, and
a rag gray with old tears.
The rose
a fresh bloom of pink,
the sand black as lava.

There is also a script.

What to do now, thinks
the codebreaker.  Now that I have
this, what to do with it.  Especially since
I understand the play,
but not the language in which
the dialogue is written — only
the stage directions which are in English —
and this is a romance, apparently,
with an unknown lover. 

The directions on the first page
give him the next step.  He chokes
as he eats the rose, drinks down
the black sand,  and sobs upon the rag
that springs back to supple life
upon first touch of his new tears.

Begins then to look around
for the player he is supposed to address,
assuming the words will come to him.

If I had chosen another mystery,
he tells himself, it would be much
the same.  Dry throat, damp eyes,
and no clue as to what to do next.