To sleep;
Is to dream about what could have been,
In mendaciloquence, inexorable segments
Where the moon shifts phases,
The lunar tail pacifies a beleaguered soul,
In a deep sanctuary of cotton, bruised colors
To sleep, to slumber, to lie in deep, serrated grass
To brave narrow staircases and endure a stony pass
-
Not to sleep;
Is to lose one’s sanity, to consummate
A whole cocktail of nostalgia, a whole sea of iron
Underneath the waves of crimson fluid
In a world of a shunned portico
Where dreams are far beyond reach of blundering hands,
The turmoil, the nuisance, upon a portion of a hostile land,
Where no body heard the billowing screams of a thousand hands
That yearn for absolution in the time of corrupted memories,
And surly chauvinism – we can never celebrate the mundane
With eyes wide awake.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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