There are nights I finally cry myself to sleep,
Salty tears taste sweeter than the quiet sorrow.
There are nights I turn solid like a dusty brick,
Sinking in a life so empty I’d prefer horror.
There are nights I’m out of breath, and I open the window like the cage I’m in.
Most nights I try not to think in bed, and even then I think more than I wished.
I miss the time when at night I used to sleep,
Also being able to enjoy the book I’d read.
I miss getting crazy summer dancing or wearing pjs at my best friends’.
I miss lying tired after a day to remember, not waking up restless.
But guess I’m not that happy chic, she isn’t me;
So at night I dream of mornings, and keep sailing my ship.
Está escrita en inglés porque a la poesía así lo quiso, escribirse en inglés, aunque no sea muy buena.