What remains

I collected them all: my tragic moments,

my fatal dramas. As if I wanted to examine

what the worst thing is that ever can happen

to a person.

One day, I thought, I will stand by

the roads. To tell the passers-by: this is what

suffering looks like. I would show them

the blood, the wounds, the scars. I would

demonstrate to them the daggers, the guns,

the words, the ideologies. But especially

the stigmas, the exclusions, the prejudices.

Did I seek recognition? Like some people

who are disadvantaged and yet ultimately

get some sense of honour, glory?

However, I never got outside. I never have laid

any hands on any stranger. My shoe

box full of misery has been dumped on

the humus hump. What grew out of it. Carrots,

kohlrabi, parsnip, Jerusalem artichoke.

I love Jerusalem artichoke. Especially with

butter and milk.