This is a poem for Dany, far from home. Same sky over his land, but there children are stolen from their classrooms. They die in broken vans crossing borders. They have no papers. They come north and they are nameless and they will get sent back home before the ink dries on their homework. They draw pictures of their families where mother is an angel, father is a secret, and the scent is like burnt toast. We have no images for this. We listen to Dany, who speaks in epigraphs. Now we know why. Each day here is a day less there. There are so many children. “I am a poet for peace,” he says. “I am a poet for my people,” he says. These poems, they will get spoken softly into the radio transmitter, splinter into tiny poem fragments a small child might hold in the palm of one hand, like seeds to be planted next to the maize and sugar cane, the coffee and bananas. Each seed a seed of hope. It could happen.