He called himself that, because he was free. Actually free.
Except of course, when you put him in the isolation cell, for twenty-four hours.
In the isolation cell there was only a tightly strapped mattress with no corners or edges,
Nothing, where you could bang your head, down to the ceiling and walls.
He was hardly outside, ran Free with his heavy double bass on his back
through the streets with half a sock on your foot, crowded out all the guests in the pubs
and hugged everyone, for which he is an oversized at the moment, effervescent
had heart.
Sometimes Free even had a heart for the cops, who neglected him here and there
condition, and brought him back to the station. They locked him up, because
society couldn't deal with him. Or because nobody bothered to.
They locked him up, to protect him from his own unbridled freedom
and to scare him.
Aber Free, the Kurd was, knew no fear. who once saw his face, wenn is a bit,
had to understand, that there was something bigger in Free's life or past, as fear
about yourself, Fear of conventions.
When it was cold again in the city of Bern, I often thought of Free.
If only he were here, I thought. The streets were teeming
from serfs. These serfs tightened my heart damn tight.