The BeAt (at Home)

If I had a country,
in which I would be home,
  not only as death-dedicated to visit,
a Caesar in the honour
or thousand voices,
to the weathering applause.
Not for field and ear,
to the choirs of Unrest.

I would begin,
on each new morning a new life,
and deeply in me, I could
I wanted and I become
me upon it deliberate
Who I am on earth.

If I would be no slave,
no fool, no shadow, but sight.
Only one human with birth right and blessed,
with the desire, to know,
whatever  I desire,
is volatile, does not excavate me.

As under thousand thoughts,
in unsteady staggering,
nothing remains like it was,
but the desire stays alive,
strengthens even,
what's right, cause enough,
no doubt
no fraud
only the choice,
and the courage,
a life
a body
a spirit
and a heart.

No, that would not be a joke
and even the pain
not imperishably,
not inseparably,
also not inevitably,
hey, that would be well.

Such a morning,
despite financial concerns,
I would welcome to want that.
Because I would be at Home.

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