Curled up all your life
in the kitchen corner, next to the fireplace
(even when you have the whole house to yourself
you hide – like a genie in a bottle)
as in tight outgrown clothes
with every movement strictly controlled
not to hit or break something
or hurt yourself or the ones you love.
Even a little hunchbacked, if the sabre swings
to cut only your imaginary hunch,
and if your nail is accidentally chipped
to survive as the black dirt under it,
to hide endlessly in the traps
of your own remains…
But that’s why in your dreams
you walk for days along swollen rivers down wide boulevards,
you ride – goose pimples all over – along steppes and prairies,
you drive endlessly without ever coming near the end –
especially without the nightmare of premature coming back
to the home crammed with objects, in the lane of your neighbourhood
of the little fatherland, with no one else’s but the father’s guilt
and the mother’s that that you were born there…
Hence the amateur kangaroo jump
(with the bundle in the gut) all the way to Australia,
and not in the bathtub with curled up limbs like in a womb,
but in an Ocean to brandish as an Octopus
and with your tentacles to penetrate into every pore of the Earth
even if you are suffocated by her tough rings
like a worm with thousands of segments
and each one of them – even if trampled on
to be able to start a new life.