What can I say about Sleep?
Who tip-toes down the hall
In slippers each night;
Opens the door
Sits on the edge of the bed
It sinks
Her hands move quickly
Like a windmills' on a hilltop.
I do not want her. I wave her away
But the fringe on her glove is thick,
It brushes my lip
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem