Thus Pass the Nights

My sleep schedule is even more disturbed than normal. Translated from my Finnish poems.

Half past four.
Counting my wolves and sheep under the cover of darkness,
reaching out and finding nothing,
save for the wind.
This storm, too, must pass,
this wind lull into silence,
these raindrops be dried,
yet for now sleep for me out of reach,
retreated into a box, only sparingly opened,
now that you’re not here to help breathe back the gales.
One, two, one, two, three, four, five.
Wolves, sheep, hours,
all these elude my grasp.
I build a wall, and, come morning
I will not admit to remembering my delusions.
Thus pass the nights, days are a different story.