The Grasshopper Poem by Stefan BR

Afraid,
afraid for
steamed-up hot tea
in the morning,
the sweet brownie
waiting warm
on the table,
the purple-cushioned
velvet armchair
in the evening -
letting your child
blame the beach
the red-blue toys
and the pink balloon
flying on the sea -
oh, you grasshopper
so
you hop and you hop,
beyond the boos,
not to think home,
which you then thought
you burned
in your fireplace,
all alike a priest
who condemns fire
only to praise
the sparkly coal.

And now -
tied to a mast
wearing sunglasses,
getting brown-tanned,
with a skin, pale,
hopping and hopping
as the circling wolves
howl at the moon
around.

Nights are
wounds of plastic dolls
from which blue waves
are gushing out,
but your eyes
are molded
in a steaming-frost,
as you hop -
and you hop
in the squared light.