In the Sanatorium for Trees
There is no place like the sanatorium for trees
To serve your probation.

The moon rubs its balm
On barren heads.
The rain rehydrates parched desires.
The sun decongests swollen memories.
The wind rushes in with tincture and cotton wool
To dress the wounds of spring.

Walk gently through the wards.
Do not disturb:
Over-ripe ambitions,
Castrated longings,
Papayas with unusually large breasts,
Punnagams on chemotherapy.

Walk on without fear –
They are too disorganized
To remember you
Or the concoctions of death
You poured into them.
They stare stonily into the distance
As soothing hands unravel their matted hair
And pour lukewarm water on their heads.

Walk up the path
To the kindergarten for saplings,
Sing with them the glory of green,
Take them into the woods
Along the giggling stream,
Leave them with their doting nannies.
Turn back
Only to wave them goodbye.

Back in the wards
The odour of death
Hangs in the air.

There is no return:
You are sentenced to life
With the sun,
The rain
And the wind
In the sanatorium for trees.