He bears the shell of his happiness
and walks across the world. He’s been dissuaded from stumbling

or making wild and youthful jumps; he must protect his
calcified happiness against the thrusts of time, against the jolts.

The shell is so thin that the light shines through,
the fingerprint of a child could easily deform it.

How already, as a little nervous boy, he had to carry
that eggshell and sing a song while all the others watched.

And he feels how they sometimes grab him by the feet and pull
on him and hurt his legs and try to beat them crooked with their whips.

The further he marches into the desert to carry his eggshell through
the world, the more dishevelled, the more barefoot, the more fiercely

pursued by screaming folk who blame him.
For the fact that his eggshell is intact and able to bear happiness.