This piece of Meat.

Creatinine surpassing the line
The month july of nineteen ninety
my blood no more crystalline
I beg for the help of the All-mighty

Hospital, nurses and doctors
my pulse shivering like a small bird
They all perform well their rôles like good actors
now my feet are soft as curd

Ominous words, hideous rooms
tests never seem to reach an end
They diagnose my fate is doomed
I have no more years to spend.

Family hugs me in mother's womb
I think of a sweet sleep tonight
But nightmares siege me with a tomb
Will you please hold my hand tight?

Tony, August'95

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