A CRY FOR FREEDOM © 2008

Sleeping has become a mandatory retreat,

For the eyes to close in rest,

But the words, those, remain awake in oratory,

In a kind of small prayer, said like a rosary, gently.

While the body rests, the mind keeps watch,

In a constant murmur, almost ritual,

Where each word is a prayer, a melody,

That echoes in the nocturnal silence, spiritual.

The words slide, one by one,

Forming chains of scattered thoughts,

That, even in the dark, assert themselves,

Like faint lights on hidden paths.

It is in the night’s retreat that I find myself,

Between sleep and wakefulness, on a tenuous threshold,

Where the words pray, as if counting,

The anxieties and hopes, in a gentle whisper.

To sleep is to leave the body to its fate,

But the words, faithful, do not surrender to death,

And continue in prayer, weaving destiny,

In the calm of the night, sketching the divine.

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