The calendar seems to never end for those in despair.
December is the lights of Lampedusa.
Where will we be by then?
Seas have horizons to start eternity again,
But hope is lost when months no longer care to have a name.

The water turns a darker shade than yesterday
And it is April now. A promise should be in the air.
A silence speaks of tragedies underneath the surface.

Strange fish will be caught at the end of the year
by the fishermen of Lampedusa.

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