This book begins with forced exile and ends in exile. Perhaps it can be called autobiographical, although there are no facts here. Perhaps it can be called confessional, although there are no confessions here. It is about a root that does not stop growing. About a field path that leads to a metropolis. About love, which itself is a road. About language, which at the same time becomes a refuge and a rescue. About the berries of old and bitter memories that beckon, poison and heal us. The book consists of selected poems from three previous collections, as well as those written in recent years.