Travelogue

A pilgrim doesn't travel alone like a worn-out

donkey through a dusty landscape.

He is surrounded by the thin shadows of his past.

The fears, the commandments.

In the white fear of a red sun he wants to articulate

what he has concealed all those years.

He wants to say goodbye. He wants to evacuate.

Without expectations. Without calculations.

"But that is impossible," object his phantoms.

He is brooding. He knows that they're right.

But a pilgrim travel is only successful when

one enters the pilgrimage hollow like an earthen jar.

Pauperized like a threadbare tail coat.