


The immaculate, white wall of the sanatorium,
the fleas, the bugs, the absence of rugs,
the lack of sounds,
or the rat-a-tat-tat,
constantly penetrating
the enclosure of the lonely,
the peace of the one and only.
In the garden of solitude,
Where her and his only companions
are fleeting thoughts and sentient beings,
Loneliness becomes an art
and the vacant space
enough to fill the heart.
Is she lonely?
Is he alone?
They might be,
but vibrate in silence.
Hush…
For it is the art of loneliness!