I turn the key in the lock.
I enter the room in this abandoned infirmary,
hideous hospital where fifty beds
meant for the living
are used by the dead.
Who killed them? Why so many?
Is it the whippings I give them?
No, please, God, no, anything but that!
I have a timid assistant who follows me in,
and an administrator too.
Look at us: we are officials, we are safe,
and yet
there’s this smell, and the silence,
the absence of breath.
We cover our mouths with clean linen handkerchiefs,
our initials embroidered in the corners, so elegant.
We speak through the cloth, we tie his hands,
just like the hands
of our Lord Jesucristo on
the cross.
Suddenly I wonder,
what does it mean
to be saved
from someone
like me?
Then we lift him.
We place his feet in two holes in a board;
we tie them together, now he’s even
more trapped than before.
Before we leave him, I see blood and the mercy
of unconsciousness.
He seems to sleep;
the sight of his peacefulness
makes me pray
that he will not enter
my dreams
tonight
along with all these others,
the dead,
his companions.