The sick human being lives stormy
but shouts out its needs in silence
and without a tongue.
Day and night is gone.
They wanished with the convulsions,
and only contractions measures time.
The Master of the house`s powers and resistance,
ebbs out in the colorplays of the Fall.
For all is white soon.
Death is no guest.
It is no friend.
It is the tool of the finagler,
a seal without history.
The will to Life does not sits itself down.
It never rest
there
in the bed.
It is the Storm that pushes the leaf to the ground.
The sick human being live life responsible
but without burdens.
And the medecine is fear.
