When I packed my suitcase for the third time in one month

And I booked the train ticket,

I exclaimed with fear:

“ God, where is my home”!

 

“ And anyway, where is my home”?

I ask everybody out loud,

Scattered among countries and towns,

wandering from door to door,

without any possession like pilgrims and

gazing at the road.

 

“Your home is there where your writing table is”

My friend writes to me,

And I see, she straightens up along the table.

My sweet heart tells me

“there where your bed is”, there we warm up

each other with our hearts,

and are happy to wake up,

“where your are always awaited, your home is there”

My student son laughs

And plans to go far, far away.

 

My mother sits in from of the TV

And the rhythm of breathing matches with the steps ascending the stairs.

The house which once could not contain her daughter,

Fills once more with the motionless stones,

Even mouth perished behind the wardroom.

 

And as for me, I walk among the mountains and the seas,

And search for my home,

The place, where I can nail the nail for my coat,

And nobody would pull it out,

And nobody would dare to tell me: “this is not its place” …

That “never again” …