(For all those who shared my journey with me in September,
in different cities, in different moments, in different ways.)
Where government doors are wide open,
where there are no iron obstacles,
where young people play badminton
on the presidential street;
Where there are seas and lakes,
sandy beaches and old castles,
and poetry festivals;
Where there is a rule
that buildings should not grow too high,
where balloons rise into the sky,
and public baths fill with steam;
Where my childhood comes back
in the shape of trolleybuses and trams,
where trees seem happier
with little houses for birds;
Where there are rusty bridges
and Art Nouveau;
Where there is the softest rain,
the freshest breeze,
and the fragrance of history
rising from the streets,
the old buildings,
and the libraries.
Where the loveliest friends
wait for me at airports,
bus and train stations,
with hugs and smiles,
a place to sleep,
and a car to take me home.
Where a friend brings my book
in another language,
and my words suddenly
find another home.
Where friends open doors
for readings and meetings,
for an interview,
and help my voice travel
a little farther.
And sometimes I arrive too late.
The friend who gave voice to my words
is no longer there
for me to reach out
and give the hug
I carried all the way.
Where I wish I could stay longer,
just to help a friend
build his new home.
And then
there are small branches and gravel
lying quietly beneath my feet.
I bend down
with pleasure
and pick them up.
I take these little things away
from your paths.
This is what I can do for you.
So that you stumble less.
So that you go farther.
So that you prosper more.
One day
someone will do the same
in my motherland.
We will see it.
We will bend down ourselves.
We will pick up the cobblestones,
the heavy things
that have made our way difficult.
And perhaps then
we will all walk
a little more freely.
***
September, 2026
