It's when I'm having incoherent thoughts,
And realize, my consciousness, is at odds,
When I can barely distinguish between what's real, and what's not.
My dreams, merging into wakefulness,
Webs of stories, from my sleeplessness,
Which seem to never stop.
I feel the heat; I feel the water, as I am sure.
Sure that I am sick, and that it's not a product of my imagination,
Yet merely, a creation, of my hallucination.
While I'm in this state of comprehension, about how I ail,
It's but a slight conciliation, for my body, being frail.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem