They call me and I go.
It is a frozen road
past midnight, a dust
of snow caught
in the rigid wheeltracks.
The door opens.
I smile, enter and
shake off the cold.
Here is a great woman
on her side in the bed.
She is sick,
perhaps vomiting,
perhaps laboring
to give birth to
a tenth child. Joy! Joy!
Night is a room
darkened for lovers,
through the jalousies the sun
has sent one golden needle!
I pick the hair from her eyes
and watch her misery
with compassion.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
He gives dynamics to his scene through his choice of image, through his choice of words, through the staccato approach.... but I am left wondering if that doctor brings comfort to his patients or does he watch them like the Grim Reaper without the grim?