SHAPE OF ABSENCE XIV
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.