Whether the clock's striking three
Or nothing at all,
Life begins and ends here
The universal atoll.
Sprightly feelers begin a search-
For words, for the correct words,
In sound and/or time,
Honing in on heart and/or mind.
My couch sounds differently
At three am
Than at two pm,
When it is, for the most part,
Silent.
It does not breath then
Like in the early morning;
It doesn't stalk then
Like in the middle of the night.
The walls also pervade,
And guess riddles
Like, 'What did the chambermaid say? '
I am brightly quiet
Beleaguered by roundabout thoughts:
Who made the Tyger's maker
In the forests of the night?
All I can do is hover there
And begin a twitching fright.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem