POETRY

SLEEP IS LOVE

Sometimes the walls of sleep

lie down in the breast

and suddenly one sees

that sleep is a love that has lost its way,

a form of love that has remained untouched.

And it’s no use trying to gather it in,

even by loving in sleep,

because love, 

when it passes, 

becomes free of us

as the wind becomes free of the tree

or the night from the nearly abortive

gesture of its hours.

It becomes free of us and surrounds itself with walls.

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