A type
of Gethsemane.
Not so much the pain
more the agony.
Not the absence
of sleep –
more the ache;
an ache which penetrates
each sinew. If only
one had slept
like others do.
Oh, how you’d love
that luxury. Wait
for the next event –
everything burns,
each pore secretes
anxiety. Has it
all come to this?
Who knows
what follows
the restless night.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem