There are
nights I finally cry myself to sleep,
Salty tears
taste sweeter than the quiet sorrow.
There are
nights I turn solid like a dusty brick,
Sinking in a life so empty I’d prefer horror.
There are
nights I’m out of breath, and I open the window like the cage I’m in.
Most nights
I try not to think in bed, and even then I think more than I wished.
I miss the
time when at night I used to sleep,
Also being
able to enjoy the book I’d read.
I miss
getting crazy summer dancing or wearing pjs at my best friends’.
I miss lying
tired after a day to remember, not waking up restless.
But guess
I’m not that happy chic, she isn’t me;
So at night
I dream of mornings, and keep sailing my ship.
Está escrita en inglés porque a la poesía así lo quiso, escribirse en inglés, aunque no sea muy buena.
