<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=393023" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Patient</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The patient looks outs into the garden burning <br>With Christmas* stars of vermillion fire.<br>They flower, he feels, nicely on that bush together, <br>But he is no longer akin to himself. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Timidly he plumbs his inhalations night and day, <br>Sinking into that inner circle of being him. <br>Has he ever breathed without doubt? <br>How strange that now he thinks each breath. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">People are so dear and ill-timed. <br>They offer their care, which lingers. <br>The patient is ashamed because of that stress <br>Which accentuates all talk of hope. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">On his blanket lies the morning paper <br>With a giant headline screaming. <br>From the corner of his eye the patient reads <br>What already escapes his memory. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">What, bombs, hecatombs slaughtered, downfalls <br>Of people and cities, early and evening? <br>Is this the world then? —The ego is a throng <br>Of identity burst long ago. <br> <br>The I is like one of those swarms of bees, <br>Pendent, ready to fly, relocate … <br>It is filled with only one desire: For warmth, <br>And unmindful as forever is.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Franz+Werfel">Franz Werfel</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=393023" data-title="The Patient de Franz Werfel" data-description="The patient looks outs into the garden burning With Christmas* stars of vermillion fire. They flower, he feels, nicely on that bush together, But he is no longer akin to himself. Timidly he plumbs his inhalations night and day, Sinking into t..."></div> </div> </div>

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