memoirs, art and fragments by Thomas Milner

The Silent Ones

WINTER FLOWERS AT SUNSET

The time has come to consider the sometimes anonymous inmates of the Home.

The patients that one never sees because they are bed-ridden, isolated and never quit their rooms.

 

They are the silent ones and little sound reaches them from the outside world.

Everything is for done for them

(Existence in the Passive Voice).

They are washed and changed twice a day.

They are spoon-fed little bowls of soup or pap four times a day.

They are visited once or twice a week by their families but they are not edified nor are they stimulated.

They endure.

Oh, those lethargic and inert mountains,

Those skeletal ghostly wraiths with their sunken collapsed faces

Speechless in Gaza,

Now they’re on the last leg of the race,

Inching silently towards the finishing line,

They have run of steam and interest.

Thoughtless,

They are dying of old age.

OLD HANDS

We honour them.

Comments on: "The Silent Ones" (2)

  1. ana lima Guerreiro said:

    Tom,
    Junto o meu pensamento às linhas que escreveu: Nós os honramos.Honramos o silêncio que atravessam até à linha de chegada.

    Like

  2. Ana,
    I don´t think that the Young can be reminded too often that the Old exist.

    Like

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