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He said he is just seven years old |
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Don't understand what he is doing here |
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None of us can enter the secret spheres |
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Mechanisms which brought him to dementia |
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All that he can see looks so strange |
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His hands are different, old and wrinkled |
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They are covered by tortuous veins |
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Entire body's decrepit |
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Seized with a great distress |
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At dawn of his birthday |
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The day of his eight years |
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The night when he's gone |
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Fallen asleep in a breath |
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And never, has never awaken |
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Dandled in sweet rest |
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Even his own-voice has changed since the last time |
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Tired, hoarse and breathless |
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Asking what kind of disease he's got, he feels exhausted |
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He can't stand up |
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Nobody told him that a cancer is growing in him everyday |
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He can't recognize anybody around the bed |
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He asks for his parents to come but they won't do |
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He keeps the impress that he leaves without having lived |
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Who are these persons near me, all smiling |
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With tears running on the cheeks |
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Why do they claim that they are my children |
