The fires of Europe bring a call to silence.
Upon us, a call to wipe clean
the arrogance of a continent turned to ashes.
I am taking shelter in a dead city
as tall as the burning building cranes
and black and white children stare,
in waiting, at green lights.
At a crossing, between cyanide waters,
the passengers crammed elbow to elbow
collect old postage stamps.
It is the morning of doubt.
I prepared for this all my life,
with a blunt nib.