He said he is just seven years oldnDon't understand what he is doing herenNone of us can enter the secret spheresnMechanisms which brought him to dementiannAll that he can see looks so strangenHis hands are different, old and wrinklednThey are covered by tortuous veinsnEntire body's decrepitnnSeized with a great distressnnAt dawn of his birthdaynThe day of his eight yearsnThe night when he is gonenFallen asleep in a breathnAnd never, has never awakennDandled in sweet restnnEven his own-voice has changed since the last timenTired, hoarse and breathlessnnAsking what kind of disease he's got, he feels exhaustednHe can't stand upnNobody told him that a cancer is growing in him everydaynnHe can't recognize anybody around the bednHe asks for his parents to come but they won't donHe keeps the impress that he leaves without having livednnWho are these persons near me, all smilingnWith tears running on the cheeksnWhy do they claim that they are my children?