My sleepless nights aren't white,1
barely brightened by sparse stars.
Little holes in the watertight canvas,
sad rhinestones on the veil.
And I, bewitched by darkness,
spend countless hours
counting the funerary sheep
which weave my insomnias.
Ah, midnight strikes.
Ah, I sleep not.
And the less I sleep the more I think,
and the more I think the less I forget.
The vast dead-end, the vast space
which extend to the bottom of my bed.
These silences are unheard of,
the boredom is cosmic.
Must I resort to science?
Anesthetize the insomnia?
Ah, midnight strikes.
Ah, I sleep not.
And past midnight I dance
to the rhythm of tachycardias2
And everything gets carried away and everything swings
and I'm spread by everything and I'm fled by everything.
The moon is a slightly rancid fruit,
life is an illness.
Those who dream lucked out,
and the rest have insomnias.
Those who dream lucked out,
and the rest have insomnias.
Those who dream lucked out,
and I have insomnias.
Ah, midnight strikes.
Ah, I sleep not.
Ah, midnight strikes.
Ah, I sleep not
I sleep not.
I sleep not.
I sleep not.
I sleep not.
I sleep not.
1. Literally translates to "My white nights aren't white". In French, a "white night" refers to a night one spends without sleeping.2. "Tachycardia" is a medical term for a heart rate that exceeds the normal resting rate.