You sleep; I lie rigid and turn,
Also the books of the page,
Each crimple of folded paper;
Magnifies in volume as the hour burns
Us into silence,
The swollen hands of father's clock
Recites the mechanical speech, Tick,
Tick, Tick, he's performed everyday
Since his birth, to no applause,
The off beat, drips from the
Broken tap, Inox steel echoing
As pannists pound night water
Melodies, interupting your
heart beat.
Beneath the duvet of your eyes,
I see movement, flickering
Left, right, left, eye lids
Pushed like an unborn baby
Moving within the stomach,
You sleep sound, I think
And write, I analyse; Sounds
Imagery and the night.
Within the rhythm of the darkness
With her, I'm not alone,
I have my Insomnia.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A familiar scenaro for many poets, and non-poets alike. At least we get to share these moments, in a fine, artistic manner.
Indeed it is, Thank you so much for your comment Dan, the quiet of the night can inspire imagery and words to us fellow poets, , thanks for reading.