in the morning

In the morning

When I look into the mirror

I see the lines in my face

and wonder about my life.

What makes it so difficult to know?

And when you know, to do?

I followed a strange path,

often fought against the small things

and gave in for the big.

How should one live?

When I was young, this was the question.

Now that I am older, I do not know the answer.

The many things my hands have done

are now gone, not made for eternity.

My words have not left a trace.

The years have passed, even for me,

why am I surprised?

In this simple hut I drink my morning coffee, I eat my breakfast.

Somewhere there is war, I know.

There is always war, somewhere.

I do not hear guns from where I sit,

I just hear the cars from the motorway,

the sound of the small everyday war,

a senseless struggle against time, against space.

Nowadays I see to my garden, I feed the cats, I listen to the birds.

You could call me names,

but I have seized to care.

I am the woman without name, I own not a thing.

I walk in worn shoes, I look at the sky.