It’s not you who should solve my problems, God, but I yours, God of the asylum-seekers. It’s not you who should feed the hungry, but I who should protect your children from the terror of the banks and armies. It’s not you who should make room for the refugees, but I who should receive you, hardly hidden God of the desolate.
You dreamed me, God, practicing walking upright and learning to kneel down more beautiful than I am now, happier than I dare to be freer than our country allows.
Don’t stop dreaming me, God. I don’t want to stop remembering that I am your tree, planted by the streams of living water.