Ah desert.
Your heat wants to scorch the camp.
You think the refugees are going to be hungry?
Look, the river is still green.
Death washed away into the rocks,
children play trumpets in hiding holes.
Tell the mother, the pitcher will longer wander.
The house will probably always ask for a return,
doors ask for adventure stories.
Ouch dear, that distance was never there.
Meeting and separation are born by feelings.
