On doctor's orders a nurse sat beside his bed each day reading Neruda aloud to him.
It was the first time in his life he'd heard poetry.
Poor soul, he still waits to fall ill again. Though it's not as if he understands poetry or loves to read or listen to it.
This longing of his for the joy of sickness— poetry doesn't know of it, neither does the nurse; only God knows.
God knows all the secret ailments of the heart, though that knowing goes no further!
Is this love? Tenderness? Or affection? Or merely the wish to see? —Reckless in his dream of falling sick, this man has read all of Neruda's poems thousands of times over and found no answer to these questions.
Poetry hurls questions and steals away answers.