We are waiting for our soul's salvation
Especially at night , as  sleep vanishes
From the corners of  pillows, their soft
Textures turn hard in silk and cotton,
As  resident dreams turn stale and old.

Then there are moths come to eat sleep
From a powdered body  under our skin.
They seem to  appear  by  window's frost
In search of their light fighting  windows
Staging phantom dances of people in bed.

We are  the people who cannot sleep
Only dance with our vigorous limbs
Touching  backs,  clothes peeled off
So we  present really pretty shadows .

We  grow our heads right into clouds
Not   knowing the lizard and the rat
That scurry past our tiny  feet below 
Lost in  rustling dry leaves and scrub
But a mild tickling sensation to  feet
Is felt in  heads even at such heights.


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