I wonder whether there will be days,
when I wake up without tears and helplessness,
when I look into my winkled body without hatred,
when I can stand, speak, and sing.
Children swing under my shadow,
as if there is no growth, no rebellion, no solitude.
Lovers share their boxes of chocolates,
as if there is no separation, no lies, no trifles.
Wives wait for their husbands alongside my root,
as if there is no war, no conscription, no death.
Adults bury their parents besides me,
as if there is no stress, no regret, no loss.
Old men drink teas with me,
as if there is no nostalgia, no ill-health, no fear.
I have lived long enough to be a ghost,
Generations of people have come to me,
and my tree hole full of their struggles, cries and deepest secrets.
The woodpecker is my friend and my psychiatrist.
She comes to me once a year,
after spending the cold winter in the warm south.
She peels my skin and eats the worms that make me sick,
and opens my heart and listens to the words that make me struggle.
I always tell her that I want to be anything but myself,
and she encourages me to live with my flaws and imperfections.
She seemed tired and sick last time we met.
I wanted to say sorry,
but she has never returned since that winter.
I want to look for her, my friend, my only friend,
I wonder whether there will be nights,
when I give hope to those who visit and guide the lost souls,
when I am truly accepted and loved by others and myself,
when I can shine, like a lighthouse.