My skin is growing thicker and thicker
with wet paint, all my experiences
covered with a new layer
that changes colour
with the still wet substrate

that slowly dries on my hard core
that no one sees - who I am
in my own memory
as if seen from the inside
which is a fantasy

because from the beginning the outside
world mixed its colours in me
so I can never know
who I would have been
in wartime, drought, or cholera -

a golden hero, rosy-fingered love
or a smelly brown mush
around a black core