When my sleeping head turns left ,
I have fearful dreams in my belly
And I am helpless before a child .
It is not a butter thief dreamchild
But who made asphyxiating fears
A bloody paste mixing my death.

I now turn vertical to sleep’s roof
Under a fan stirring old memory
But wind stirs its fears in a belly.
Child is the very first devil’s imp,
A figure enacted from old times,
As eyes ended at curve of belly.

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