The hooligan danced in circles,
He was free.
Like the cactus,
Untamed and dry
He stopped still, mid-twirl as sand filled the gaps in his feet.
He always turned a few times shorter, the hooligan-
As he stood on his tiptoes and the top of his toes sunk into the grains-
He always stands on his tiptoes,
To be able to touch the backyard sun-
The sun he left at home but found at the end of the journeyman’s tale
The same sun melting at different borders-
By the hooligan,
For his freedom lay not in places but in time.