Twilight. It’s gray, and I have an objection to tea —

in the hours, two of which have passed fleetingly.

A wish to be anywhere but here presses me

My syllables ache, disjoined

The market is in disarray, and the inns are closed

I took a nap to forget the boredom, but a noise knocked me up

Once the owner of a bar saw me slipping out the window

Since, I have grown an ear in my belly

I am listening to the blood mix in my spleen

All feuds return in the gossips of servants

It is getting too warm to wear pants.

Forged paintings in my bedroom color my clutter.

What did I tell you? It’s twilight, gray

and I have an objection to tea?

Two hours have passed fleetingly.

It’s past daytime now, and I can’t keep denying a cup of it.