Night wearing a helmet of dreams squeezes the moist head and the sleeper's olive lids. Dimness spills its oil, an ebony smear over the hid and the wound. I rose early in order to watch the window whiten. The day rises, sprayed with ghosts. Dawn trenches overflow with phalanxes and skulls.
Death watches out for our beginnings.
Living will come only later. Rain starts falling around 4. The waters of night have broken. The whisper of veins is heard tapping on the window-pane. Torrents of laughs are also heard on the roof.