My hands stood like towers,
Craning over the headboards
Buoying like the chandeliers
Hooting like owls perched on dead twigs
I heard the Moon’s harlequin laugh
Not far above the roof beams where I
Glance endlessly, shamelessly
Trying to induce sleep in another sleep
Of blindness and deafened ears
Deadened skin, and dead end paths.
-
Look what the err of sleep holds,
That in a dream, you should wake up,
Embellished underneath your bed
Are the monsters that you have created,
Spawned from one’s mystique vogue of nostalgia
Oh, and when I had to wake up,
In a sudden hint of the faintest vein
Of the lacklustre Sun
I long for sleep in my wakefulness
And in the wakefulness, I feel displaced upon
Oceans, deluges and hailstorms of pain
Bleak, desolate, nowhere to go
But to desolation itself
-
Counting the days until the days have spun
Into years of inexorable conclusions and moribund allegories
If I were to think of you before I sleep,
Soon enough I will drown in the sea of cotton,
And rot in the childlike sand dunes of reality
We meander and limp on our way up,
And we spiral with poise on our descent
I fall softly, subtly on my bed
Sounding the alarm inside my head,
Obstinate pain and waning comfort,
The melee is in the middle of its pandemonium,
And the bliss is as terse as the September drizzle
With fountains of oblivion ushering
Forth another life, a life of forfeit
A life of uncertainty.
-
Sleep, even sleep has flaws
It draws you close to comfort, to sanctuaries
And the way you stride past vibrant hazy dreams
Will tell so much of another moment spent
And lost in an ephemeral scenery of fractured heavens
And perpetrating inferno,
Just before it is too close to grasp,
It fades. It churns. It subsides.
You are back to misery.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem