Four trips to the hospital, another two programmed for my eye, but it seems to be responding to the treatment. We’ll know what the damage is by the end of October when the inflammation ought to have completely subsided.
Now I can concentrate on Finbar. He’s going downhill very fast now. He did everything too fast. I looked at the Oracle, and she told me what she sees. Not consolation or false hopes. Quel che sarà, sarà.
Even friends we love slip into the shadows,
little by little, one unsteady step after the next.
No imperious cry can stop them
when the ears no longer prick at the sound of their name.
No tongue has the words
to hold back the inevitable end.
We watch the blue above,
how it spreads its clouds
untroubled by the tears below,
and all the honey sweet scents are rank;
the day is red with impotent anger.
The spring will not come again.
There is no sweet in the bitter of this sleep,
only the sadness of never.