To my fellow-migrants!...

Photo credit: Luc Forsyth for BuzzFeed News

THE CARAVAN

It is the time the swallows leave—

together—

in elegantly curving lines of flocks—

an eyebrow penciled in the autumn sky—

the summer waving now goodbye.

They know

that when the world around is hostile

they could fly—

into the crimson distance of a dream—

pursuing a million-year route—

as old as history,

as old as desire,

as old as life itself.

Looking from above, the swallows see

a broad chaotic flock—

down there, below…

No silence offers rest,

no rhythm hinders the blazing pain

of that protracted wretched walk.

The bleeding feet of children,

the mothers’ empty breasts—

the threat of marching into another scream—

arrested between violence and unpredictable hostility.

Some throw themselves into the water,

others try to climb the barriers,

thousands crawl ahead…

But is there hope?

And is there pity?

The heat is scorching skin, and muscles, and determination…

The swallows cry out loud from their dome above:

“There is no food,

there is no calm

for those who march on earth

within the caravan.”