I write
and from some tree
an owl cries its call
(I write like the owl that calls).
I write and sleep sets its seeds
in each tangle of the sheet
(I write like a sleep’s seed that sprouts).
I write
and the moon grazes
the grass the cows had left
(I write like the moon that grazes remnant grass).
The insomnia plays in its fifes
its preposterous music
and on the blackest roof dances
a dream with a bitten thigh
while the stars are quiet
like sleeping flies…
I write the music that the insomnia whispers.

 © Anna Lemos

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