If insomnia is uprooted from the brain trees, what else is left for the night?
I know there are stars, but I can only put my feet in the slippers,
Walk for a few steps, and take them out, and then walk barefooted for a few more steps
Before taking the slippers with my feet to the bedroom.
This woman is my love. Her contours are like mountains and flowing waters,
Or whatever meandering in the semi-darkness that I do not resort to words.
What is between us, love deducted? At this moment, she does not even have
Reasons or dreams to demand me any more, while I stand watching her, mute.
When she is sleeping, no one will know what I am thinking about,
Or how in my mind one person splits into many and how distance transforms.
Worms of insomnia somersault in the water of thoughts; aren’t they lives?
How grave is the problem that so many clocks cannot have
Peaceful sleep in the quilted bosom of the winter,
While birds wake up so early to hunger, crying like babies.