#x155

I like to stay up late. Enjoying the peace and quiet. But every night there comes a time, when I just long for bed. I long to warm my body and rest beside you.

I know I’ll curl up under the covers, my skin cool from staying up. I’ll push my bum out towards you, because I know, no matter what state of sleep you are in, you will find me.

You will find that soft crease you love so much where my thigh meets my hip and you will use it to pull me to you. I’ll go willingly, nestling myself into your lap. Your bed-warmed hand will run over my skin leaving a trail of goosebumps. You will murmur something about me being cold, but it doesn’t deter you.

You’ll sleepily mutter about my ass, squeezing and caressing like it’s the first time and the last, growling a curse as you lightly smack it. I’ll wiggle against you; encouraging and enjoying the quiet sounds of appreciation.

Your hand will slide its way under my nightie to my breasts. You’ll knead them, cursing again, sleepily grunting and thrusting against me. Finding my nipples hard (as always), you’ll gently pinch. More cursing. More sleepy muttering, about my tits this time.

My skin will slowly warm and I’ll smile. Feeling your hardness against my ass. Your body curled around mine. Some nights your sleepy attention will turn into lustful, late night sex. Unplanned but familiar.

Other nights we are both satisfied with our gentle intimacy. Falling into a comfortable sleep, knowing this connection is worth just as much as the carnal one.

Dylan Thomas in questa poesia descrive la missione del poeta: scrivere per amore della sua arte piuttosto che per guadagni materiali.

In My Craft or Sullen Art In my craft or sullen art Exercised in the still night When only the moon rages And the lovers lie abed With all their griefs in their arms, I labour by singing light Not for ambition or bread Or the strut and trade of charms On the ivory stages But for the common wages Of their most secret heart. Not for the proud man apart From the raging moon I write On these spindrift pages Nor for the towering dead With their nightingales and psalms But for the lovers, their arms Round the griefs of the ages, Who pay no praise or wages Nor heed my craft or art. Dylan Thomas, 1946

Nel mio mestiere o arte cupa Nel mio mestiere o arte cupa praticata nella notte quieta quando solo la luna s’infiamma e gli amanti giacciono a letto con tutti i dolori nelle braccia, il mio lavoro è cantare la luce non per ambizione o pane, non per vanagloria o commercio di incanti su impalcature in avorio ma per il modesto salario del loro cuore più segreto. Non scrivo per l’uomo orgoglioso che si ritrae dalla furia della luna su questo zampillo di pagine, non per i morti che torreggiano con i loro usignoli e salmi ma per gli amanti che abbracciano i dolori di tutte le età, che non offrono lodi o compensi incuranti del mio mestiere o arte.

Sono diverse le trasposizioni in musica di questo brano, sia in lingua originale che in italiano.