The telephone blinks in
Dead tones,

While resting in its hard
Covered bed.

The night birds grieve,
Their tears hit the lake puddles,

As the running sink can’t turn off,
I can’t hear the nightingales sing

Me to sleep, 
My house sighs in hopelessness.

The steel sky and its black metal clouds,
Shooting pellets of rain, but now

It stops, 
I can’t tell if it’s going to reload.

Like starfish, the leaves plaster themselves
On my glasshouse.

The planet turns,
I turn,

The unrest pillow lies next
To me like an old lover,

Yearning for the dark.