The hostel hums its midnight hymn,
a fan that turns but cannot cool,
a neighbour's radio, low and dim,
the dripping tap, the broken rule
of "lights out early", torn in two
by every lamp still burning through.
My notes lie open like a map
of countries I have never seen;
I trace the borders, fill the gap
between the "what" and "what they mean",
and every formula I learn
is one more bridge I will not burn.
Down the corridor, a voice
recites the dates of ancient wars;
another prays. We have no choice
but hope, behind our separate doors,
that what we planted, page by page,
will rise to meet us on the stage.
Sleep, my mother says, by phone,
a tired brain forgets its name.
I close the book. I'm not alone:
a thousand lamps here burn the same,
and morning, when it finally comes,
will find us steady, not undone.
So let the fan turn, let it hum,
let the tap keep its quiet time.
Whatever answers, when they come,
I read enough. I'll write. I'm fine.