Posted in: travelog


The landscape is a route

from waiting to transformation green

and September golden fields

the route not determined

the route northwards

a train can only ride on its tracks

the tracks someone placed

the train only has that direction

onwards, onwards, onwards, stay on track

but when we get off the train

we can make moves

sideways and diagonally and rotate on the spot and peer

in all directions and the routes

lead home perhaps to something

that can one day become home

to the sister, cousin or uncle who constitutes a home

until then the body is home

the phone is home, the direction is home

the route is home, transit is home


I have closed the borders

between Greece and Balkan

entered loose agreements

between Europe and Turkey

agreements that don’t hold up legally

but are treated as law without verification

you issue instructions

and if this is illegal I will rename them memos

you wish for a breather

in which I can pretend

like the escape routes have vanished

overgrown unused

not deliberately blocked


Every time someone goes by

I hope it’s you

but it’s strangers, strangers, strangers

on routes of no concern to me

against the direction of motion I see everything which is over

finished chapters, abandoned homes

is a home still home

if you never see it again?

If it’s in ruins?

Is a bunk bed

A sleeping bag on the deck home?

How many

years does it take before you are home in a new city

generations before you are no longer a newcomer but an inhabitant?


How many times does it start over

yet another route, yet another direction

yet another waiting time

are we arriving?


dansk version

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