He's ill again. Oh, that's too much!
How is he there? It would be good
To come and see him... and to touch
His burning forehead if I could.
Not to be borne — he's ill again!
To sit beside and try to chat...
To ease his pain... Oh, damn! His pain...
It's anguish just to think of that!
It's an unfathomable spell —
There's hardly anything to add.
It's quite all right when he is well.
But when he's ill, I just go mad.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem