I haven’t belonged to anyone for ages
like a coin fallen from the edge of an old icon.2
I am scattered among the strict inheritances and vows
behind the blinds of drawn destinies.
History is the first border I have to cross,
I wait for the voice set apart from the harmony of obedience
that will report how distant I am.
I am like a bronze statue under the city square of stars
above which birds practice their anthems of hope;
I reveal myself like a feather stuck to an eggshell,
which tells of a premature departure and
heralds new life.
Every day my home
secretly changes under the world’s tent,
only childhood is like honey
that never lets anything leave a trace in it.
2It is usual in the Balkans to put a coin at the edge of an icon as a donation.