This echo is preserved in the catacombs.
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Father! Mother! I cannot move! The parents came to see their child. You must be strong, get up. But the boy stayed in bed. The teachers came. You must open your books. But the kid just cried. The elders came. You must meet your friends. But he stayed in bed. When his friends came to visit, he could not play. Word spread. Doctors came from everywhere. They gave herbs and made tinctures but there was nothing they could do. On the third moon, the parents buried their child. Many people met at the grave to grieve with them. They had much to say, but not a word was uttered. Mother went into the water. Father drowned himself in wine and wandered. Never returned. †
This poem was inspired by the realities of ME/CFS and other severe chronic illnesses that leave many people confined to bed for months or years.
Original image by Annie Spratt and manipulated by Ashmore.
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I think this speaks about absence: but also about failed language. About failed translations between beings, every attempt to reach another consciousness falling short. It feels as though something is infiltrating the boy's mind, from within the family or from something unknown. There is no clear explanation, only a widening gap between experience and expression. In that sense, the poème feels quietly absurd.
From the bed to the grave, lying still in both.