Det er mangt et godt hode under en gammel hatt...-- There is many a good head under an old hat ...-- Hay muchos una buena cabeza debajo de un sombrero viejo ...-- Is iomaí ceann maith faoi hata d'aois ...--Es gibt viele einen guten Kopf unter einem alten Hut ...-- Il y a beaucoup une bonne tête sous un vieux chapeau ...

Migration

All day, column after column,
a squadron of feathers,
a fluttering airborne
ship
crossed
the tiny infinity
of the window where I search,
question, work, observe, wait.

The tower of sand
and marine space
join there,
comprise song,
movement.

Above, 
the sky unfolds.

So it was palpitating,
sharp right angles passed
heading northward,
westward,
toward open space,
toward the star,
toward the spire of salt and solitude
where the sea casts its clocks to the winds.

It was an angel of birds
steering for
that latitude of iron and snow,
or the hot sun
the skyborne numbers
of hunger.
Hunger, hunger.
Or hope?
Hope?

I saw only the flyway.

But among the refugees
homing for the hope and
destination
by the unity of fire,
death,
by blood,
by thirst, by hunger,
by the cold,
by the precarious day that wept
before being swallowed by night,
by feer,
by the erotic urgency of life;
the unity of people or
myself first.

So like a seabird, migratory foam,
they come from north and south,
wave wing,
multiplied hungry heart
they will arrive on our
shores.
Can we help?
Will we help?
Or?
Are we too late?