Poetry in the form of a fairy tale

Before sleep comes, your sleepiness reads you a bedtime story so that you can sleep soundly and find that at the end of sleep there are not many dreams.

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"Sleep is returning to a quiet village from the hustle and bustle of your body," said sleepiness kissing your eyes.

My body is a city full of traffic jams, the roads are sore from accommodating vehicles.

"Sleep is a house of dreams that are chewy and thick, supporting your life," said sleepiness kissing your forehead.

My life is a painful traffic jam, counting time, the gap between hatching and not.

"Sleep is being free from accusations and demands from the state," said sleepiness, stroking your hair.

My country is fast asleep, while I am suffering, embroidering fate on the body of religion.

"Sleep is letting yourself belong to no one," said sleepiness, slowly starting to get sleepy.

Even my sleep is disturbed by my country.

Sleepy asleep
reading bedtime stories,
while you are still brightly lit
thinking about the fate of the country
who knows what will happen.
Me and the country are equally chaotic and noisy.