Diagnosis

In the gauze that wraps the morning The players poise The ping-pong rackets in stiff applause Back and forth the humming train The beating wings on my tender brain The ball frolicking, bouncing, resounding In my pain A gulp anesthetics of air for life But nothing numbs me now Only the fear of death remain And the rope called strife Dangles on the eye I cannot climb so high And why should I If I go up come down again These players never cease their contest Against my wounded rest And the morning's gauze Unravels in the lurid hands of day.