Michael Krüger, editor, narrator, poet, is the author of some verses that now also seem like a proposal to remember the dream of a Europeanist like him: the dream of a united continent, and not only of a European Union. “Sometimes childhood / postcard writes me: Do you remember?” Born in Wittgendorf, Germany, in 1943, Krüger has championed that dream, but now “the idea is falling apart.” In his most recent book, Passengers (La Huerta Grande), makes a trip through his country, on whose ashes that dream rested as a possibility of a better world. Secluded in a village near Munich, where he was responsible for the Hansel publishing house, he has yet to publish the verses of My europe (translated by Cecilia Dreymüller, some published in Babelia), where he reviews the wounds of the continent. La Huerta Grande has also published The god behind the window. Anagrama has launched, among others, What to do? and Why precisely me? Krüger now suffers from leukemia that has added to the unusual ills of confinement. The interview was done by email.