As I packed my suitcase for the third time in a month

and booked the train ticket,

I burst out with fear:

“God, where is home!”

 

“And where is my home, anyway?”

I ask everybody aloud

in countries and towns

wandering from door to door

without possessions, like pilgrims and

keeping my eyes on the road.

 

“Your home is where your desk is”,

my friend writes to me,

and I see how she sits up at her table.

My beloved tells me

“home is where your bed is”. We warm-up

each other with our hearts

and we wake up happy.

“Your home is where you are always expected”

my student child laughs

and plans to move far, far away.

 

My mother is settled in front of the TV

and the rhythm of her breath follows the footsteps she hopes to hear on the stairs.

This house that once could not contain her daughter

fills with the stillness of stones,

even a mouse moved out from behind the wardrobe.

 

As for me, I wander between the mountains and the seas,

searching for my home,

the place where I can hammer the nail for my coat

and nobody will pull it out,

nobody will ever dare to tell me that “this is not its place”…

Never again.