When I was six
Mom was holding my hand tightly
As tight as she could
Brother, older sisters holding hands
Everyone carrying at least something
Dad carrying grandma on his back
The warm weather
Fear all over our bodies
The voice of the people-smuggler in our ears:
Fast! Hurry! Run! This way! Quiet!
Crouch down! Stop!
Freeze! Stay awake!
The rough road, the sharp stones
Mom, my slippers got holes
My feet are hurting
Be quiet my dear
We’ll be there soon
Lost my slippers
Mom, my slippers are gone
They broke completely
Carry on, my love, it’s fine
Can we relax for a bit?
No, hush . . .
I am tired, hungry
The stones are hurting my feet
Finally, a smile from the smuggler —
Congratulations, we’ve passed the border!
Thank God, we are alive!
Photo from Wild Frontiers Travel