Some Nights Poem by Elena Tsonkova

It's 2: 45
in the morning.
Again?
It was 1: 48 just a few words away.
Ago, I should say.
It's the sound of the fountains
that keeps me awake.
And the thought of not having said what I meant.
It's the spell
of the orange tree,
the hammock
in that patio or, may be,
just the quiet voice
on the radio.
Sleep was not meant for me.
Not tonight.
Not beside
the empty other side.
It's odd how freedom
sometimes tastes like emptiness.
It's strange, but still
it's what you make of it.
Hell? No! A song, a poem,
an eight-hour walk,
dinner with a stranger,
an early-morning run,
a bite of a juicy sour orange
by the side of the road,
under the scorching sun,
a swim,
a scatch of a drunk man
on the bus,
the view from the clock tower,
the night sky,
the softness of mowned grass.
And then...
It's still
the sound of those fountains
beneath that lamp,
but it's 3: 41 and
it's time for a nap.