Then they raised a diaphanous screen
in front of the dying man,
separating him from the others.
He could still see through the film,
but they were only moving shadows:
wan figures trudging along
in broken, abrupt gaits —
like one who walks
bouncing a colic-screaming baby.
When they touched his skin,
their hands were tight
in transparent gloves,
warding off the faint germs
of his impending death.
Yet he was glad to be there.
A condemned man is still a living man.
But the exhaustion — God!
Pain arrived as long pikes.
Like some stubborn child
refusing sleep,
he hung on by a thinning thread.
And the relatives,
they were on the edge:
fed, cleaned, and watched over the man,
but they also wanted him to go —
as only the living can:
fussing over and failing
him at the same time.
