In the warm, humid night, noiseless and dead, a boy cries. br His crying behind the wall, the light behind the window br are lost in the shadow of muffled footsteps, of tired voices. br Yet the sound of medicine poured into a spoon can be heard. br br A boy cries in the night, behind the wall, across the street, br far away a boy cries, in another city, br in another world, perhaps. br br And I see the hand that lifts the spoon while the other holds the head, br and I see the slick thread run down the boy's chin, br and slip into the street, only a thread, and slip through the city. br And nobody else in the world exists but that boy crying.