When I leave this place
I would like to take a handful of the wind in my pocket,
and a bit of salt from the soil in my breath.
And even though your velvet fingers will tighten their grip,
I will have to leave through the tunnel.
I will have to leave and grab another ray of light.
I will have to hear gypsies playing flutes in the corner of the town.
Leave I must.
For the desert has cast its eyes on me,
it has chained me to escape this place.
The sea calls too, with its arms spread from coast to coast.
Its wailing waves, its patient sand,
both wait like a still chameleon with wandering eyeballs.
So I step onto the cloud and see where the wind takes me.
You can tiptoe into my dreams,
you can pedal away with me into the sunset.
You can even shoot a poem into my tent.
Or you can keep your face pressed against the looking glass.
I will see you when I have come back to this door.
Maybe if I have jumped through a time warp,
we will both be the same,
you and I.