Exile

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Those small things
Which in small doses
Weave life,
Hereby
They deposited and failed me,
Here am i, a survivor,
Far away, elsewhere,
Surrounded with other customs

I am alone
O so much alone
As an island
An old sober and stony island
Which on an impetuous sea,
Dances and waddles
Behind a veil of fog

And these are some mornings
When, with red and salted eyes,
I get up of my nuptial truce
With this feeling
Of disenchantment:

My home is not here
My home is not overthere