He's Ill Again Poem by Irina Minaeva

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.