That of me,
the sleep I do
can call a nap,
in mid afternoon,
is so fantastic
I cannot ever miss.
The pendulum goes
with a gong marking
one past thirty
wherever I am
my eyes turn heavy, sink
into at transitory death
That being with me
I go to bed at nine
past thirty in the night,
sleep embraces, I turn
oblivious to what happens
around me. I lie dead as a log.
At midnight I get up
stay awake for
two to three hours,
tossing in the bed,
thinking of the past,
and of the future, as if
I am going to live forever.
That is of me,
where slumber
takes the better of me
obviously sailing in the realms
happy, deliberating deep
and shuttling swift between
morn and night.
Meenas Poems 