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?
