I can hear the clock ticking away seconds to its death. I can hear insects clicking their tongue, waiting for its prey. Now that have found one they click away with a renewed ardour. Then I can hear the breeze whistling away fronds and clandestine murmurs of burgeoning connubial bliss. Shattering the mosaic of cadence of these nightly slumbers, there barks a dog. There goes a train, ferrying the nights of railway-sleepers of one world to honeymoon dawns of another. And there cries the crone. I don’t know why, I don’t want to know why.

And there the inebriated stars twinkle away their credence. And there the palm brushes the intoxication in the air aside. The sleepy cat sniffs the air, and goes back to sleep. Sleep.

There barks a dog again. There clicks the insects. There ticks the seconds. Sleep.

And there tucked in the bliss of a sonorous slumber, the world dreams on. Dreams of blackness. Burnt with ambitions, calumny and pride. Of wingless angels and fairies in décolletage, of skyscrapers and disaffected pastures, of caprice of yore and blithe premonitions. More dogs bark. More insects click and more seconds tick away. Sleep.

For the world sleeps.

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