How wonderful to sleep, sleep, sleep …
I would sleep long armfuls till to your lips.
Because sleep is the love that we don’t know.
It moves at night or at any time
of life, always it conquer us, and it forgets,
while we are behind the wheel or bored at a party
while we are living of light and deafening words
it moves toward us silently like the arrow
it seduces amid the impenetrable darkness
a look never seen and recognizable bewitches us
and it’s true that there is somewhere
some form of this desire
that it’s not the end but the inception, exactly,
on our eyelids and ephemerals dreams
hire – sleep is the incestuous love,
this death’s brother and mother Which brings us,
not knowing where and when, so short
and long trip as in who loses or lost,
and then there’s the sleep more or less
corresponded, and I really
if only I could to find yourself,
I would sleep forever.