Classic Poem

Her face concealed in the shade of the apricot tree as she lies in the garden behind the hospital, a young woman is sunning herself, her legs white below her white dress. Even after the best part of the day, no one, not even a butterfly, comes to visit this woman, who is said to be suffering from tuberculosis. Not even the wind stirs the branches of the apricot tree, which knows nothing of sadness. I am here for the first time, no longer able to endure my mysterious affliction. But my elderly doctor does not understand his young man's illness. He says I don't have a disease. These excessive trials, this excessive fatigue: I must hold my temper. The woman gets up, tidies her clothes, picks a marigold from the flower bed and pins it to her breast, and disappears into the ward. Hoping she will quickly regain her health — and I mine — I try lying down where she has just been lying.