I'm back, on my guard
in the streets of my youth
and the crying embrace

of amma and my sisters
on the banks where I've played
I won't leave here again

even if I have to fight for it
It is not in my hand
to die or to kill

No longer can I be an exile
a polite guest conforming
like a slave

I'm back, on my guard
in my own house, and you, brother
the oldest, you must be wiser

No king
can crown himself
at most he can be a servant

Talking to men
who I don't know
singing along with the music

on which I dance in the eyes
that follow me
like shadows

wishing to be desired
without being in danger
dressed for it, that too

is who I am, free
to the extent it is permitted
by the hell

of other people's eyes
that love my body
and hate me for it

but that's not me
I am anything
but what they think

Never I wanted to tolerate anything from anyone
exept from myself, I preferred

to be lazy and if I ever once did
help a bit really everyone was amazed

and looking at me -- I already see the time
approaching no one does remember that

Ice-cold I snubbed my parents
at all times I was quarrelling

at our home there always seemed something to be
the matter and every time I was angry

with myself, while nobody was angry with me
what was even more difficult for me

then I wished to be left alone
and full of misery I sat down and cried --

the entire earth is a vale of tears
that a girl has to endure virtuously

by being beautiful every new day again
like a flower that makes people happy

I give myself
to be read

that's an act
not a desire

it is surrender
not fearing danger

it is sharing and healing
who we are

releasing together
what is stuck

a bond
of freedom

After the departure of the Romans
we were again our own masters
at war with each other

The sergeants took over
first the peripheral areas
then the middle land

Only behind the mountains
the residents continue to resist
longing for a king of their own

As once
his sword shone
his sword shines

immovably stuck
in the eyes of the people
dreaming of a peaceful life –

a passed-on promise
for once, but unfortunately
the sword has disappeared

Expats, migrant workers, people
who are stuck and continue to dream
of a free life as shepherds and cattle lords
in their own land of grassy meadows
milk and honey (the old promise)

The young men long
for the beautiful girls
of the north
while they do the work here
in the delta, where they feel only at home

in the stories
of the ancient god who created the world
with thoughts from his heart, living
words from his mouth, the Potter
who molded man

stories
that knead their souls, giving some light
when it is dark in their hearts
full of old ashes, in which still glows
the fire of the Destroyer

I would
escape, not know better
and run off, maybe scared
without a street cat helping me
but free

I would
go straight for my dreams
the smells that I can't reach
stroll through hedges and gardens
I'll never forget it

Would it
have happened that way
and do you want that too
or is attention enough
when you meow

Entertain me, Caress me
or are you asking: Comfort me
you just have no idea
what prison is
set me free

Don't talk, tomorrow too, tell
no stories, no illusions
rather do not give me anything

The reality is enough
as it is, not specified
free of labels

If I ever learn this
I will be wise and see
the known myself

also what isn't specified
of which I have to guess
what I smell, what I feel

and hear and see
also you
who wishes to be known

Don't talk, don't frame yourself
in an anecdote, such a short film
caught in templates