The voices of talking nurses,
the sound of trolleys that are pushed
up and down hallways
do supplant the white,
do bring interruption to the colour
of the bed, the floor and wall
and I am caught as if captured in an unknown country
with a pipe that runs into a vein on my arm
on which a bag is hooked that continually feeds
drop by tiny drop,
I am busy through waves of pain
looking at the angelic face of a nurse.
Pain is a thing
that just does not want to disappear,
that comes back again and again.
© Gert Strydom
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem