When I was little, the gypsies stole me.
They carried me out in the dead of the night,
and let me watch from the elephant’s back
as my home disappeared out of sight.
I can still vaguely recall
the smell of vanilla from my mother’s kitchen, and
the sound the floor makes when my father walks.
Painted over those layers are strong colours and strokes.
I grew up in a traveling circus
raised by a fire-eater and a clown
living on the back of an elephant,
moving from town to town
and I never had anyone
and I never had anything
to tie me down.
The dancing bear, Lyudmila,
even in chains inspired fear
she taught me the tongue of the animals,
how to talk to a hawk and a deer.
And Omar, the lion tamer,
who showed me how to tame any beast,
the trick is to look it straight in the eyes,
and never show fear at any price.
The fortune teller told me my fortune
in riddles which I am still trying to solve,
but somehow to me they all make sense,
let me see world through wide angle lens.
And the most daring of all trapeze artists,
gracious madame Sonya de Vie,
who taught me that the secret of the balancing act
lies in the heart of me.
But now I have too many shoes to wear
and only two feet on me,
I see fish, that think they are birds,
they are flying around me.
As I try to get hold of my heart,
the pedals are moving faster and faster
and suddenly this balancing act
is getting a bit difficult to master.
Picture credit: Eugenio Recuenco