Lying in the dark
with pleated white satan,
dressed to the nines
and infanately quite.
Time enough to breath,
yet not a second left for oxygen.
Slumber, a meal offered,
and a hunger that never ceases.
Friends gathered round,
and not a welcome word uttered.
The begining of a time,
and a cold that makes you shutter.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem