the castle is gone, the walls are broken, the roof’s, fallen down,
there is no lake, there is no crane, no hairs hoppin’ on,
there are no clouds in the sky, just dust, dust, dirty and brown,
but there, he sat, in the middle of the rubble, in this abandoned town.

a migrant body, with a migrant soul
without a future, without a goal,
his soul is a moth, in search of light,
some warmth and safety, without proof, without a fight.

holding a baby crow, like a little child,
his eyes, brave and dark, with a faint dash of wild,
he gently holds your hands, he looks into your eyes,
he tells you a story, made of earth, made of skies

he had died in a mountain, that one cold evening
nobody had seen the killer, no funeral, no mourning
there was an ugly gushing wound, as he laid there in rest
petals of roses, covering his chest.

his blood had dried all over the stones
hungry animals, chewing on his bones,
and all that was untouched, damp cigarettes, a little bundle of notes,
an old rusty pistol, a locket, and a picture of some boats

but his soul, his soul was on the run
he flew over the meadows, he was looking for the sun

you died on that cold mountain, in the hour of the dusk
no one saw your killer, towering on your husk,
you ran around the world, you never found the sun,
but you finally got to home, somewhere to put down your gun.

Malmö
Jan, 2025