This is the country of unease,

Always about to change its mind

Any second now

Without, however, giving up hope of

Some indefinite possibility.

This is my native land,

Between these walls

The handful of metres between

And not even all of them –

Alone at the desk with paper and pencils

Ready to move on their own and begin to write,

Skeletons brought suddenly to life by ancient feathers

Unused for ages, the glue dried out –

They scribble in a frenzy on the paper

And leave no trace. . .

This is the country of unease:

Will I manage some day

To decipher these traces that no one can see

But that I know are there, and waiting

For me to write them out

In my native land: A4?