Ode to António Egas Moniz, the Father of Mercy.

They suffered, those returning from our war
ears still ringing with distant gunfire.

Shock therapy:
a kiss of lightning to rouse the slumbering spirit.
Snap ’em out of it.

LSD:
to open the doors of perception wide enough
to let the terror flood in
and seem more real than reality
or possibility ever could.

Cold water. Needle sprays. Hydraulic jets.
Insulin comas. Isolation.

When all that failed to cleanse the mind,
how lucky they were
to receive the ultimate gift:
a careful severing of their will.

Let no one say these treatments lacked finesse.
No. The simplicity was the genius.
It took mere minutes—
just a few taps of the mallet—
and what remained was soft,
docile,
pure.

And what a reward it was:

To be made harmless.
To be made childlike.
To be made no longer a burden
to oneself or others.

A grateful nation offered its broken sons
this quiet miracle
in place of understanding,
in place of listening,
in place of care.

Through the eye!
With all the grace of a god flicking off a light.

What better way to honor
the trembling hands of a veteran
than with the blessed hush
of irreversible calm?

Do you see them?

The peace in their blank gaze.
The dignity in their drool-soaked bibs.
The holy stillness in their shuffling gait.

No more anger.
No more trauma.
No more speech
to alarm the family.

Just the gentle hum of existence,
unencumbered by the nuisance of self.