The journey's end,
the indefinable air,
the moon of craters,
dry moon poured upon scars,
the torn tunic's calcareous hole,
frozen veins of foliage,
the panic of quartz,
wheat,
the dawn,
keys spread out in secret rocks,
the terrifying line of the
dismembered Europa,
sulphate asleep in its stature
of long geography,
histories,
and turquoise dispositions
rotating round the refugees,
the incessantly blossoming hope,
how is not real,
but,
is the spacious night of density.
How can Europe manage ?
How can Europe feed so many?
What can we do about their dream's?
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