Dürer Draws His Mother
He touches the transparent veins
with a sure hand,
the blood still courses within.
He gathers up the heavy
stones of the eyes in his tender gaze
and elevates
the old age.
He stands firm at the verge of the wrinkles
and stares boldly into the depths.
He listens to the sunken lips,
with which the world
breathes a word.
He hears nothing.
His tears fall in black streams
discerning the shape of the precious face.
Mother, your son is feeling for you,
is suffering to precision.
He knows that mercy is belittlement.