The wounded spider and the wounded fly
have a tendency to make the world
a better place, as music does.
There are wounded rivers and oceans.
For all I know, after a long perilous hike,
God bathes his swollen feet
in the oceans that comfort him,
just as we, in his image, are comforted
bathing our feet.
Do no harm: God heals or does not heal.
I swear by Apollo I’ll do no harm:
he heals or does not heal.
Wounded we are curious,
wounded we usually heal,
but sometimes the wound remains open,
it may continue bleeding, scar.
Everywhere on earth and distant universe,
there are probably birds with wounded wings,
the remaining wing, right or left—stronger,
while they sing, caw, gwak.
Other casualties just keep to themselves,
lightning-struck trees,
half their trunks coal black, under green leaves.
Because my family was a flock of doctors,
I named a visiting hummingbird Hippocrates.
A child in one of my serious games
I took the Hippocratic Oath.