When in the years that Beckett died an ache profounder than silenced torments and pains that had

ever existed an illness AIDS it was called and it suffered attacks so many who died were then hated oh harms that have no name for their haunting back and forth along the equator, scarred a quilt that was made was circulated bit by broken bit it its heartache tailored from its squares a holocaust resurfaced and taken to their proclivities, drenched with the blood stains of martyric children tossed to the pavement and riddling strife what science did then was atrocious, forgive, that I betray it is not unconcerning