Thirty Years Old
Today I turned thirty years old.
At this age you start and think about your deeds.
Like today thirty years ago,
I showed my mother the way to death,
this was the first thing I did after I came to life.
At the age of five I have two strong memories:
that year I escaped the robbery of an eagle,
who already dared to cut my white hair,
the second memory are two dynamite crates
loaded a red horse,
that were emptied into our yard.
We did not kill any living thing with them,
and we did not use them for war
(although there was no more war)
we used them to dye woolen clothes.
At the age of fourteen
I discovered that women are to be loved.
A year later I started writing poetry.
The only girl who loved me was literature.
For five years nothing is worth mentioning.
When I was twenty I dropped out of college,
the first noble act in my life,
then I tried the curb,
loneliness, responsibility, fatigue,
I wanted to try love but in vain.
At the age of twenty-one I was in England,
or rather in a refugee prison camp.
My twenty-third year was fruitful.
I was in Germany as an (asylum seeker),
then I met my first and last girlfriend:
now my beautiful wife.
I started university again,
and my name was always first entered in google:
that's how you get into history today.
Then come better years,
love makes you dream without feet on the ground:
the pedestal awaits me.
When fixed a quarter of a century,
I thought I was writing poetry.
Three years later I published the first volume,
big event for me,
but not so for the city
(the biggest joke made to yourself
is to publish a volume of poetry).
The engagement started,
after that I felt more prosaic.
Twentynine,
last year with two ahead.
This is where the need to strike a balance begins.
Copyright © Alban Tufa | Year Posted 2022
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