The body ages differently from the mind.
The mind has its random seasons and weather vane
To feel the breezes waft this way or that. Mankind
Will feel the drift of things through fantasy
Or dreams or modified memories or grotesque
Animosities where one was always right.
Woken up by Body at ten past four one night,
I went back to bed to re-enter Somnia.
But Mind remained in ceaseless remembrance
Of half-sleep notions and strange ideas,
Like birds alighting on the branch of a tree
And flying away, aloft, somewhere by instinct,
Vanishing into oblivion, never to be recalled
By the very same tree, the same branch,
Stirring that same twig, deranging those leaves.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
3/5. I found two sonnets by W. Wordsworth related to insomnia. In one he also speaks of counting sheep! AM