in the hospitals white
walled memory
many stories are placed
drawn and sewn in
stories of healing and pain,
tears of joy and sorrow.
whispers in the ear
with a little medicine
under the tongue.
but all are blanketed
in the silence of the walls
white continence
or is it black
no one can see in another
persons heart
when all the beaded rosaries
have been counted
and all the saints candles
lie in wax on the floor
there is nothing left
but for the janitor to
mop up.
dedicated to walt whitman.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem