Footsteps approach, footsteps tread, footsteps march.
Shouts ring out,
Signs are marked upon my house, graffiti is scrawled,
Warnings painted with \"good intentions\"—
It’s nothing, really—just goodwill,
Just a noble gesture.
Where can one flee? Where can one hide?
Into the forest. Once you wrap yourself in the forest,
No one can see you.
At dusk, when the birds tuck in
Their little ones, singing ever-softer lullabies,
I, too, spread a bed of leaves
Beside friendly trees that watch over me
Like angels.
Night in the forest is mystical.
In an instant, a bush transforms into a bear—
One that has yet to settle into its winter den.
I see glowing eyes searching for prey, for fresh, warm blood.
An armed outlaw stalks along the forest clearing—
A dangerous serial killer—
I recall: he has escaped from prison...
Slowly, I return to the valley, to the non-forest—
Where can one flee, where can one hide?
Into a forest of words, into a silent prayer?
Or should I rise, bearing a banner—
Like Liberty in Delacroix’s painting,
Leading the people—and cry out:
\"Here I am! Devour me. I am not afraid.\"