‘What is left of the sweet wine of youth?’ said the grey almost invisible man seated in the long stay psycho–geriatric ward, reduced to something less than human, poorer than stone.
Those words uttered in a lucid moment in cruel time, only for the agony of that brief moment, did he realized that something far worse than, ‘God’s waiting room’ was being played out for him, And the only hope left was a momentary rest in the Greenroom, before returning to the theatre. Only Blank stars left in his universe, no power left to be patient. Time dragging on like a tortoise climbing Everest.
I like the accusation of, ‘Hypocrite’. Especially when levelled at me. I live with it, like a close friend.
Anyone who worked in that Belsen, where that concentration moon called care had its Night, will rejoice in the Hypocrite Waltz with me.
And more than anything else, I wish one day, to dance with that crippled giant of the caring game,
into oblivion, where I fear my Judge.