A CRY FOR FREEDOM © 2008

My insomnia

Are the dreams that visit me

In uncertain hours of agony,

Where the night stretches, infinite,

And the mind, restless, stirs.

In a range of frustrated attempts,

The dreams that transform,

By imitating life in allegories,

Dissolve into wrong shadows,

Leaving me trapped in their fantasies.

Each image that appears, distorted,

Is a reflection of what might have been,

But never was, only lurking, hidden,

In the depths of sleep, lost.

And thus, in forced wakefulness,

I find myself at the mercy of the mind,

Which, in the absence of rest, challenged,

Creates worlds I cannot touch,

But which, in solitude, make me ponder.

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