When the summer heat spreads
across the lush greenery,
and marigolds, rudbeckia, and sunflowers
stretch out in the bright sunshine,
I sit in a cool room
and I ask myself why
the loved body,
in which the link
between free will and muscles
has broken,
feels so heavy, so shapeless.

Why does water, given through a syringe,
become the holy grail of hydration —
to quench the flame that’s fading out?
Water and flame —
The paradox of creation.
How much quiet dignity there is in this.

Summer is already leaving,
looking in through the window,
saying softly it’s sorry
that things turned out this way.
It says farewell,
believing that next year
I might be at peace with myself.

I put on an orange blouse
to keep unwanted thoughts at bay.
I hold warmth in my hand.
I whisper:
don’t go yet!
I don’t want to fall apart.
Though I know
the voice is calling him
on a one-way journey.

I look through the window.
I look at the body.
I look at the helplessness
that’s sat down next to me.
I can’t do much.
I can’t do anything.
I cut through the silence.
I closed what was hurting me.

The world breathes quietly.
And we listen —
to Beatles songs:
let it be,
yeah, let it be,
let it be.