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,
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.