there are mornings that are very much like us
lazy, do not want to wake up, light spreads in bed, and fresh air
fills the air and sings in our ears
yet
we cover our eyes, we refuse, we
curl our legs, and bury our eyes on the pillow
these mornings are nameless and they are many
some of these mornings are fruits of those sleeping pills
because some nights are cruel insomniacs that hide from us
the gifts of sleep,
i like to hate mornings like these
and i may hate it till evening
but i have already made a promise to understand all these
stupid mornings and
just be patient and let go off them
i write once, that i may hate everything including these lazy mornings that shy away from light and air
but i must spare this self that
after all i do not really exclusively own.
and so this is it:
i hate this lazy, stupid morning, but i shall never
hate myself:
i am sleepy, i am beautiful, i am lovely and witty after all.
you may sing tonight with me:
this love of self, this greatest love of all.
Do not misinterpret it for arrogance, pride or conceit,
albeit, i must tell you,
this is just a good gadget for moving on
into a sweet and kind survival.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem