My home is where the heart is,
my home and where I am.
My home is a heart, my heart is a home.
The heart takes me into the house, what he loves.
Even if it is not reciprocated,
but bring what you love into the house,
with his desire to hope.
My heart is sometimes a small child,
sometimes it grows, sometimes he breaks the things he loves.
Then he cries for breaking them …
Sometimes he wants to run away from himself,
but there is no real escape, since you can’t die like that.
We are shocked by our pain,
sometimes we are shocked by that of other people.
And in any case we are home, the heart is where home is.
And inside me the house is like this: a child-adult-teenager,
who is not resigned to hatred
and he loves.