In a day, a week, a month, a year
wounds doze, they sleep they
disappear, but this wound is
deeper than the days.
Deeper than the dark jungle from
which boys flew, freezing, hungry,
sweltering, thirsty, scared, scarred.
The jungle gave all, but not enough.
Deeper than the pockets of the
trafficker who promised them Spain,
Italy, France, Germany, England, the
sun, the moon, the stars—everything.
Deeper than the drying wells in the village.
Women, their mothers, wailing, holding,
begging them to stay, promising that water
will return. But they know it is only a mirage.
Deeper than the wrinkles on their fathers’
tired, haggard faces. In Africa women wail,
men just get wrinkles and die young. But
they will live faraway, they will live forever.
Deeper than the Mediterranean sea, this
infinite catacomb of sorrow that swallowed
Amadou, Justin, Salifou, Simeon and many
more—leaving me lonely in Lampedusa.
Dead dreams of success, wealth, love,
health, freedom, dreams of a life (like
that of other people) free from fear,
pain, shame, disease, darkness, death.
They say that time erases all pain, just
like the wind that sweeps away autumn
leaves, like the waves that flatten castles
of sand—but not this pain, not this wound.
An hour, a day, a week, a month, a year,
a decade, even a century can never
make this wound disappear. It is
deeper than time, wider than the sea.