You have only five minutes
Until I turn out the lights.
Because the poem for which you waited all day
Isn't there, just count what is.
So: tired books on the table,
Plants have folded up their
leaves are now asleep,
The TV is buzzing and above the table a moth flutters,
Fatally in love with light.
Only a minute now. Thirty seconds.
I'm naked and in bed now, I hear you:
Ten, nine, but - haven't I forgotten four,
Three, but now it is two and for that, too,
It's too late. I can only shut tight my wings
And hope you'll wake me at zero.