Classic Poem

The reason for your suffering
couldn't have an answer, even if I asked.
As you pushed your eyelids hard with the fingers of both hands,
your face for a moment warped like that of someone from a different star.
I have not yet even held your hand,
but I am already one of the men who have left you.
If my holding your body
without mouthing any word of consolation
could soothe you as much as a cup of hot tea,
that should do—
even such a thought, to me, looks as featherbrained
as a line in a “personal advice” reply.
Just as I cannot touch your suffering
so I cannot touch your body—
this thought of mine comes not from gentleness
but from a fear of gentleness.
After that there'll be nothing but silence,
though that too may be merely a deception.