I will wash my hands of tranquilizing lies,
and burn before his eyes
the clay I shape to fit his dreams.
He
will point to the left side of his chest,
and I
will nod with the neutrality of nurses.
He must believe
before the coma ends
that his wish to die
will not hide the ruptures within the family.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem