Night has come. How a motionless day turns into night?

The stars, empty glass tubes, last night’s syringes

thrown on the tiles of the hospital in a painful fashion.

This red stigma is the bottom of the abyss. Someone,

down there, was heard calling for help during the night.

But they were all dead on their beds — dead who heard

but couldn’t run, who couldn’t fall in the abyss so that they

wouldn’t be able to hear. That cry was of their dead child

who they couldn’t betray, they had to listen to it and

they couldn’t die, retaining in their daily death

the glance of their child — and each of their acts

and movements became holy as if not to sadden

and muddle that heavenly glance.