The sick and the healer
I´m concurrently in three places, at least.
I lie by the wounded bodies of those I love
as if I were each myself, and even in the grave
I´m brother to my mouldering brothers.
Whom should I thank for being wholly
thus, since I was made to live? I´ve no idea.
Chance holds me in the palm of its hand. When
night strikes my eyes, I´ll not close them.
A hand touches my brow. ‘I´ve chosen you’,
it says, with an eloquent and radiant regard.
A lottery´s tossed on our tiny planet
sick men and healers of the sick.