Читать книгу The Invisible God - John J. Brugaletta - Страница 12

Each day means fewer things that he can do.

Some years ago he lost his sense of smell,

and now he hardly bends to tie his shoe.

You understand. I'm sure that you can tell

he's getting old, he's edging toward his grave.

Slave traders aren't enticed; he wouldn't sell.

I won't say he is cowardly or brave—

he's just uninterested in pain or fear.

He's lived from birth inside an autoclave.

But now his heart is cooked, his eyes are blear,

and he has seen some things he'll never say,

except by tangents, from this biosphere.

One thing he still delights in is to play

while kneeling with the children as he'd pray.