money is sacred to me—
because i never had it.
we borrowed bread
from neighbours
at the end of the month,
waited for donations,
and watched my father
settle his debts
to bar owners
instead of us.

i learnt to sit small
in the corner
with peach juice,
while he ordered
beer and pálinka.
he kept bottles in the pantry,
pretending we couldn’t hear
the corks easing free.

when i left,
i carried eighty pounds
in my pocket,
with a luggage filled with air,
a week’s worth of clothes,
a soft blanket, no duvet.
but a hunger for something
i couldn’t yet name.

it was freedom.
never money.

now, that it’s mine,
it does nothing to me.
it bends, but doesn’t hurt.
i saved, built with it,
learnt to breathe
on my terms.
it comes, and leaves
when it wants.
and that, to me,
is wealth enough.