One by one
she will close
the windows. The sky,
even at sunset, is too bright
for the inner décor.
The pale yellow curtains
and creamy walls
refuse to adjust with crimson.

The moon
will circumvent
the room and night remain
outside. The stars failing
to comprehend,
will leave her alone
with her words.

She is winding stories -
getting ready for the morning.

Don’t stories ever sleep?
Do they change names,
or just the address?

They all come one by one
write a preface, a chapter,
an epilogue and disappear.
How very pathetic,
how similar!

At dawn, she will open all the widows.
The day will have no character.
Oh, how she loves a colorless sky!