What do you see, nurse, when you look at me?
A frail, weary man lost in time's endless sea?
Do you sigh as you dress me, as you lift, as you feed,
Thinking my silence is nothing but need?

Do you see only hands that tremble and shake,
A mind lost in shadows, a body that breaks?
Do you see the dim eyes, the slow, shuffling gait,
A soul out of time, just awaiting its fate?

Look deeper, dear nurse, beyond this old skin,
Past the wrinkles, the frailty, the world closing in.
For once, I was young, with fire in my chest,
A heart full of dreams, unburdened, unpressed.

I was a child, with laughter so bright,
Running through fields bathed in golden-hued light.
I was a lover, my pulse racing wild,
Holding her close, love's innocent child.

I was a father, strong, steadfast, and true,
Teaching small hands what life could undo.
I built and I shaped, I gave and I grew,
Watched them all flourish, then bid them adieu.

Now time plays its tricks, and my body betrays,
Yet inside I am dancing through long-ago days.
My spirit still soars, though my body is weak,
My voice still longs for the words it can't speak.

So look at me, nurse, not as fading, not done,
Not just a burden, not just anyone.
See the years, the love, the battles, the scars,
The dreams that still shine like forgotten stars.

For within this old man, there's a soul fierce and free,
If only you'd look, if only you'd see.

Every time I recognize this feeling
in the tonality of deeply shifting sounds...
The words start to flow—
so naïve,
with illogical convictions
not to doubt.

I think I’m in trouble,
but I smile at this joyful,
passing state of thought.
Utopia is Utopia, meant not to exist—
It’s a controlled illusion, like a sedative.

I can go there and return
in a millisecond of a human thought.
Creating alternative worlds,
following the traces
of a tender yet aching life.
It keeps me, for a moment, feeling
so vast, deep, and complete.

Outside, I’m so distant from games.
Sometimes I don’t even remember
the language I used to speak.
Unfamiliar words come to me
like a flashback, like déjà vu...
Finally, to recognize where I exist—
in the present moment, in real
circumstances, assumptions.

This is not a bizarre illness
to try to understand…
My reflections inside are still safe.
I just hold every shattered human soul,
seeing them without judgment,
without control…
This is my quiet, ephemeral way
to set compassion free.

Anxiety before anxiety,
sorrow before sorrow,
word before word.
I think it will arrive sooner
than I expected…

Had I felt differently?
Had I known better?
That “thing” was imprinted
on the heart of each child
before it was forgotten.

The Z boson? A particle of God?
Inner awareness?
Lightness and compassion
screaming: keep going!
Forgiveness is a gift
for healing.

I prefer to withdraw.
Foreseeing the future
is too painful.

I feel safe in my inertia,
my comfort zone, not acting
but that intrusive voice
keeps shouting: don’t stop!

If it weren’t the fear of fearing,
sorrow before sorrow,
word before word…
They don’t bother me anymore.
For different circumstances,
I’m ready now.

The house still breathes in jasmine,
walls steeped in monsoon whispers,
floor cool beneath bare feet,
where time lingers in the scent of sandalwood and warmth.

She sits, wrapped in the hush of afternoon,
silver hair catching sunlit threads,
fingers tracing stories into the skin of ripe mangoes,
soft hums curling through the air like incense.

The wind moves through neem leaves,
a song only she understands,
and in the hush between moments,
I swear the earth leans in to listen.

Before her hunger stirs,
she feeds the strays—
a quiet ritual of compassion,
her heart full, as if the world is fed.

Her voice is a river—deep, steady, endless,
carrying echoes of the past,
names of those who no longer walk these halls,
but whose laughter still clings to the doorframes.

And when she calls my name,
it is not just sound but something more—
a place, a belonging,
a love that lingers, like jasmine at dusk.

Today's Gospel is from Matthew 15:29-37. It describes Jesus performing miracles of healing and a vast crowd of people had gathered and followed him for several days. He looks out and says: "My Heart is moved with pity for the crowd... I do not want to send them away hungry and possibly collapse on the way back." They have a little food between them, Jesus blesses it, breaks it, gives it to his disciples and from there to the people with seven baskets full of leftovers. What I want to focus on is not the miracle, but Jesus' statement that "My Heart is moved with pity." It's a fine enough description in English, but in the Greek, it is called splaghchnizomai, which means "be moved in the inward parts". It comes from a word meaning internal organs, a deep gut-level response, "visceral feeling/reaction".

Have you ever experienced this? Something so powerful, it turns your insides out and can make you feel physically ill? We've all seen those commercials of starving children or helpless animals on TV before. That's how Jesus probably felt or worse to see those people before him starving for physical and, more importantly, spiritual food. I get the feeling when I see someone suffering and there is nothing that I can do to ease their discomfort. I can only pray. To be honest, prayer might be the only thing that can help, and we should take great joy in the fact that we have a way to help, we believe and have faith that prayers will be answered, and we have the gift of asking others to intercede and lift their voices in prayer joining our own.

Lord God, how perfectly, how intimately, you must understand and experience our joys, our burdens, and our sufferings with us. How connected you are to all we go through. If this is true, it's unimaginable what you must have experienced on the cross with the weight and pain of all sin, all the suffering in the world. It makes our trials easier to bear because, at mass, you unite your very self within us. You become part of us and, likewise, we become part of you. We do not walk this road alone, because you share and understand, better than anyone else, what we are going through.

Lord, help us to develop a greater connection with you, give us the grace to be moved in our inward parts by love, compassion, mercy and all the gifts and blessings that flow from you. Let us act swiftly and come to the aid of those in need. Perhaps, our own crosses, our own struggles and trials, are preparing us to have that tender heart of mercy toward someone in a similar situation that they can find hope and peace in the midst of the storm. We ask this and all things in the name of the Father who created us, the Son who died for us, and the Holy Spirit who lives within us. Amen