Sweet spring gusts decay in my room They are stale, sluggish, and they Make the fan very, very heavy It is loud like a ramble, it betrays me
I sleep against the soft spice of sorrow Small as a sparrow. My calves are childish The morning looms over night It stares like a bored God. The night Is stone. It stoops meek and fidgety Its little white heart shivers And pulls closer its fur coat
I am a constant unlocalised impulse A thousand movements compel me To try instill a thousand beetle words A thousand times I sit up to speak Amidst the endless ruffle of air Where a crowd of air-people chatters About a thousand matters of air
No yawning or tossing turn Percussions play the heart, cautious It shields itself. Cautious it steps A little bit back, and cautious It curls in on itself. Like a flower I stroke its perfect skin, and pitiful I let it be. Music in my ears is noise. The curtains spread their midnight locks To shield me from the world.