Thursday, September 14, 2006
Lemn Sissay
The Man In The Hospital
At the hospital, there is a man, who walks the corridors
In his nightclothes and in the deadly nightshade
I have watched him from my bed the past five months
I pretend to be asleep. Sleep is where I pretend
Morning will come.
I have come to know the sand paper sound
Of silence broken by his dragging, druggy feet
I have come to know the sound of his mumbling
Stumbling words spoken as he steps
through strips of moonlight, broken.
I hear through the mental stillness the his depth of illness
He walks through the shadow of the valley of breath.
Surrounded by the incoming outgoing air of the dying
Of us waiting to exhale and bated to inhale..
I am tired. So tired. So. Tired.
My bed is covered with fresh grass and night sweats:
Dew, my dog, a red setter, deft and gentle steps through the ward door
she pitter patters her way past the other beds
Hunches her shoulders and dives upwards onto mine.
She stretches by my feet - a nightingale sings
I am surrounded by breathing it is the sound of the sea
He is coming. He is coming I hear his shuffling feet
The rag and bone man with all that’s dated. I raise my eyelid slightly
It takes tremendous effort. The effort of the Egyptians
Pulling the stones to the pyramid at sunrise. I raise my eyes
He’s at the door of the ward facing foreward.
He stares straight ahead. A head. Straight. Stares.
“there is no illness, there is no illness –
No aids! There is no such illness”.
The others wake too, too tired to argue:
to hear the tears in his lies, the lies in his tears;
to see the fear in his eyes through the eye of his fears
Lemn Sissay BBC World Service Aids Concert Nov 2003
At the hospital, there is a man, who walks the corridors
In his nightclothes and in the deadly nightshade
I have watched him from my bed the past five months
I pretend to be asleep. Sleep is where I pretend
Morning will come.
I have come to know the sand paper sound
Of silence broken by his dragging, druggy feet
I have come to know the sound of his mumbling
Stumbling words spoken as he steps
through strips of moonlight, broken.
I hear through the mental stillness the his depth of illness
He walks through the shadow of the valley of breath.
Surrounded by the incoming outgoing air of the dying
Of us waiting to exhale and bated to inhale..
I am tired. So tired. So. Tired.
My bed is covered with fresh grass and night sweats:
Dew, my dog, a red setter, deft and gentle steps through the ward door
she pitter patters her way past the other beds
Hunches her shoulders and dives upwards onto mine.
She stretches by my feet - a nightingale sings
I am surrounded by breathing it is the sound of the sea
He is coming. He is coming I hear his shuffling feet
The rag and bone man with all that’s dated. I raise my eyelid slightly
It takes tremendous effort. The effort of the Egyptians
Pulling the stones to the pyramid at sunrise. I raise my eyes
He’s at the door of the ward facing foreward.
He stares straight ahead. A head. Straight. Stares.
“there is no illness, there is no illness –
No aids! There is no such illness”.
The others wake too, too tired to argue:
to hear the tears in his lies, the lies in his tears;
to see the fear in his eyes through the eye of his fears
Lemn Sissay BBC World Service Aids Concert Nov 2003
# posted by June Clitheroll : 7:14 AM
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