He carries the shell of his happiness
and walks through the world. He is advised not to stumble
nor to make wild, youthful leaps; he has to protect his
plaster happiness against the buffets of time, against the sudden jerks.
The shell is so thin that the light shines through it,
the imprint of a child’s finger is enough to deform its shape.
How he already as a small, nervous boy had to carry this
eggshell and to sing a song while all the others looked on.
And he feels how sometimes they grab him by the feet and pull him
and worry his legs and attempt with switches to throw him off balance.
The further he travels into the desert so as to carry his eggshell through
the world, the more stripped, the more barefoot, the more hotly
pursued by screaming people who accuse him.
That his eggshell is intact and capable of holding happiness.
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