Poetry

Outside the weavers are twittering
where they sing with joy in the branches of a tree,
children laugh at the neighbour’s quince hedge
while cars are passing one after another
and the light in the room is still grey with curtains closed
when sleep folds around you again.
 
Far away an old church bell rings constantly
to attract people in the city to the church.
It’s eight o’clock when I wipe the sleep from my eyes
when you turn around and make a whimpering sound
and the light in the room is still grey with curtains closed
when sleep folds around you again
 
When I bring you a cup of tea
the sun falls over your face on a spot
with a small vein beating in your neck,
for only a moment you look at me
and the light in the room is still grey with curtains closed
when sleep folds around you again