To wake into the wintry morn’

Without a cough or cold

As a balanced wellbeing

Is already a miracle

And nothing can beat it.

Not the scalding voice of

A spouse

Her verbal antics would throw

Any unprepared person off

The track

But no so a seasoned so called


So called as all what binds

Together a shaky bond

Is the necessity of sharing

A habitat

While it’s impossible to find

Accommodation suitable

To an individual’s need.

There’s a shortage of available

Flats and no reasonable

Accommodation neither for

The young nor for the elderly

Unless you are a fugitive

Preferably from Syria or Somalia.

Whatever there are injustices

In the social system

With the golden age of prosperity

For all since many years

Turning into a bad dream.

The story of the unrecognized

Artist repeats itself in the midst

Of an enlightened intelligentsia

For it’s important now more

Than ever to stay healthy

And carry on with one’s work

The poet writes

And his readers will agree with


Are we – famous or unknown –

To produce our art for the

Steady growing mountain

Called trash?

Why would our civilization’s masses

Imitate the restless acts of

Dung beetles?

How do we keep balanced?




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