It's well after hours

I seldom stay awake this late

I sneak into bed like a ghost

Anna, aboard The Great Ship of Dreams
since long,
is already sailing the strange Seas of Sleep

The cat sleeps downstairs
in an armchair

I'm not so hardheaded
this time of night

I can even accept some writers
and painters
I dismiss during daylight hours

I write with a ballpoint pen,
since the pencil makes a scribbling,
scraping noise
that might wake Anna

I listen with awe and pleasure
to the gamelan sounds
that the freezer in the hall
has started emitting

This is gamelan winter!

I have fits of late
when I take myself more seriously

That is an uncomfortable feeling,
but maybe I stand a chance
to catch up with myself,
in a side-glance,
descending down this glide path,
before I'm placed on the funeral pyre
down by The Kila River