Even the worst day ends in nights, you say,
they are unimportant intervals,
some healing gaps between the days,
between life and death. A time of unbeing.
So we lay down to peel off the layers
that we needed in the day
and feel our bodies melt together with the room,
becoming one with darkness, absorbed
in silent waiting under roof and unseen sky.
There are some sounds with no existence in the daylight:
all is different now, we go along with
silence but that of the lark that sings,
there is no language which is good,
all is forgotten and forgiven maybe.
My finger finds your chin while I await
your voice returning. I shall not wake you now
because I like the silence of your sleep
as much as the night bird’s song.