I don't know the islands
neither I travel by ship
I never speak about trips.
One home is the world
with two old rooms
my sanity is not that good anymore.
The port is foreign and the house where I live is
rented for years and I thought forever.
Like a ship I will leave some wake behind
as I go for a walk in the abyss from the backdoor.
Beautiful travelers
all of you the fatal ones
with ribbons and strass
on the hair.
Hard workers and tramps
kings and charlatans
the trip is leading nowhere.
I forget my problems in a fiesta
and all these things they say
funny and serious.
They are* dust and ash
like a mark on the map
like a child that doesn't make a sound.
*the things people talk about