She is in pain again,

This woman with white hair,

With wrinkled and shaky hands,

Clutching onto her medicated oil.

I come to visit.

"Go home, go home,"she says,

"You have work to do.

"There's nothing wrong with me."

With this, she shuts her eyes,

Meanwhile, at times,

Peering at me,

Sideways.

"Go home go home," she says.

"You have work to do.

"Can I go home too?

There's nothing wrong with me."

The hands touched,

And bonds that bind,

The words exchanged,

And whispers uttered.

She looks at us.

"Go home, go home," she says.

"Can I go home too?

There's nothing wrong with me."

I work,

And visit,

And work,

And visit.

"You can come home now,

There's nothing wrong with you.

We can all go home,

Together."