I inherited the greater pain from my father
From my mother-the lesser one, the smell of Jasmine and Linden trees in bloom.
And so the four of them accompany me.
Always present.
Like the sight of wind turbines in foreign landscapes.
The planes are always warm
  My flesh sticks to the artificial leather seats
    And peels off them
      One organ after another
I am asked to cooperate
  But only in case of emergency
    Then being baptised in milk and honey
      By a thousand shining suns
The chestnut trees are always the first to get tired.
They're shaking off summer as if it was a precious second-hand carpet in the hands of a master.
In order to show some solidarity, I start yellowing at my corners, falling,
and asking myself what would this man
(who sat next to me in the same goddamn train,
and looked with me at the same goddamn sea)
if I would ask him whether God states how many hearts a person can bear?
(because I already have one for every home, and for every tree whose name I don't know)
And there was evening and there was morning, one day.