Tranquil, silent this night may be,

eyes unblessed by the slumber,

a solo witness for this, breathing corpse.

Plenty of moons have passed by, but,

the eternal plight of the soul, sticks,

with the futile drills inside my skull.

The agony marching inside,

smashing the darkness of this night,

stands there, flaming like a predator.

This innocent bed is mixed with the dreams,

massacred by the same recurrent stories,

and the dread for tomorrow.

Fuming reminiscences ache, nevertheless,

aren’t they the fruits of this long murk?

The sin of this hour is,

when the flesh and the mind are drained alike,

the persistent visits it would abhor to miss.

Never been into that existential dilemma,

those philosophers would wander their psyche,

and yet I fathom, birth, the genesis of curse.