If half my heart is here, doctor,
the other half is in China
with the army flowing toward the Yellow River.
And, every morning, doctor,
every morning at sunrise
my heart is shot in Greece.
And every night, doctor, when the prisoners are asleep
and the infirmary is deserted,
my heart stops at a run-down old house in Istanbul.
And then after ten years
all I have to offer my poor people is this apple in my hand,
doctor, one read apple: my heart.
And that, doctor, that is the reason
for this angina pectoris
not nicotine, prison, or arteriosclerosis.
I look at the night through the bars,
and despite the weight on my chest
my heart still beats with the most distant stars.
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