His recovery was slow but steady. After three months of almost being shot to pieces - at last - I was able to go home and partially rid myself of the disquiet I had felt.
As soon as the hospital rang - I splashed some water on my face. Changed. Grabbed the keys. Rushed out the door. Jumped in the car and tore round to say goodbye.
But, he had already gone.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem