I often think that I have a curse
That always gives me a pair of wrung hands.
Because whenever the sun falters,
My mind starts to roam around foreign lands.

Just when the moon decides to appear
And gently reveals its current phase,
The usual thoughts would be somewhere near—
Preparing to have me locked in a familiar haze.

As the worn out city goes to bed,
Raging storms roar inside my head.
Internal monologues become so much louder,
And all that I could ever do is to suffer.

Beneath the sinking star
Is a massive quicksand from afar
That leads the wanderer into the deep,
Yet all that he wants is to fall asleep.