Sitting on this bed, the night stirs before me…
It shivers, one solitary being.
Haunted by my presence, the night
Constantly stares at my solitary bed…

The bed so made up… made up with quilt-
Rose coloured covered by the warmth of
A woolen sheet…
The bed so warm
And yet so cold… cold for the night
Shivers at its sight… at its warmth,
The solitary bed

Rose or is it dark… is it darker than the rose, or eyes
Forever unslept, see a vision… an exalted vision
Of colours
Darker colours
Brighter colours
Colours of boldness…
Colours of violence or love…
Colours of pink or blue…
Blue or black…
Black or red…

Fantasies join the fragments of this night…
Night, staring at the solitary bed…
Bed, the only little object
The seeming dead amongst all objects in this room…
Or is it the only thing that still holds life…
Still holds breathe…
Breathe or is it struggle
Cold… utterly cold…
Amongst perspiration…

Bed made up and spoilt…
Each time… each time it dares
To breathe… breathe seems gone
And warm turns cold…
Cold is it
Or utterly warm…
Warm with colours…
Colours of violence…
Colours of love…

Bed-solitary bed
Challenging the solitary night…
The night is not jealous…
A sight, too horrible
To be envied…
The night is sad… and yet happy…
Happy and safe…
And lucky…

Fragments of this bed, join together
Woven with dreams…
Dreams
If it ever sleeps…
For sleep never comes…
And so it dreams…
Dreams with eyes, ever longing to close…
Close
Enfold themselves…
In the woven dream…
Was it rose it saw…
Was it pink… pink or blue…
Blue or pink…
Or was it black…
Or was it red…
The ever solitary eyes…
Staring
Wide
Was it violence or love…
Pink or blue…
Black or red…
The bed… solitary bed…
Stares at the shivering night…
Night seems its sole companion…
Night seems warm, as it seems to the bed…
Comfort… comfort it does not find
In rose coloured quilts…
Or woolen sheets…
Or woven dreams…

Nights, but they shiver away…
The night insists, struggles
And escapes
The dreaded solitary
Of the bed…

Bed the solitary bed…
Was it night or the bed…
The night deceives the bed…
The night is safe…
Safe in the moonlight…

The bed-fragments-
Ever so old… aged
Can’t hold on…
And yet so fresh… so ripe…
Yet so wanting… yet so giving…
The bed so old…
It is ignorant…
It is a new born baby…
Come to life… every time,
And then the fragments break again
And eyes
Forever unslept… wide open
See itself… the aged,
The solitary being, the bed

The night blesses its solitary…
The night prays, the night
But it cannot help…

There she stands
With its moon…
A symbol, a victim, a witness
To the aged solitary bed…
Was it pink or blue
Or black…
Was it violence or love…
What colour did it see-the moon
What did it see..
The ever unslept moon…

Was it pink or dark…
Black…
No…
It holds something more…
Was it red…
Was that BLOOD