I wanted to revisit yesterday's poem. There were many things I did not like about it, but some things I liked a lot. So, here is another go:

Marian Sairaala

The drunks are in room four:
Let them have light & time
on the bare beds, then send
them parched into the streets.

Some withered women lie
on beds along the wall.
Breathing in masks, they rasp
a dirge that lasts all day.
Dead without death, they are
their own decayed tombstones.

Outside the sun's come out,
the streets shine with run off,
another spring begun,
while winter clings on in
the green hospital halls.

Mainly I thought I made myself too much the story. An un-centered poetry is a better poetry. I'm not sure if I killed the optimistic ending, but I think the realization that spring comes and the weak linger in winter is not inapproriate.

My ankle, by the way, is much better today. I can actually walk on it, taking care that I don't bend it. Luckily nothing was broken.