The way a bed is left reflects who you are
Your bed is always pristine
My bed like me, is left unmade
Laundry days are never good
We bleach with tongues
Wanting to be whiter than white
It’s all in vain
Just like soiled sheets and stubborn stains
The past can never be clean
So much more than furniture
This is the centre of our universe
With shooting stars and big bangs
Black-holes and the space between
The place of nightmares
And sweet sweet dreams
This is the bed we made
Sometime comfy
Sometime cold
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem