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”…