One route to our harbor,
Through the desert,
Where no one knows the path,
We meandered night and day,
Hoping to see a roof,
A light indicating existence,
What urge,
What necessity,
We bemoaned our weakness,
Not of bone but of thoughtfulness,
That's the picture we painted,
As we stroll in it for days.
Life is life here or there,
We were not told the luxury,
Waiting for the one who endured the scourge,
Taking the pain with much vigor,
Laughing when we ought to cry,
We were men,
But first we were humans,
Who had need of livelihood,
Fortunate enough to walk that path,
Where the carcass of many forgone heroes,
Buried themselves without a tombstone,
That could become an indicator,
Of a life in the desert.
It was mine first,
Then my friend's,
Whose jar cruise became dry of water,
Or any liquid that we needed to quench thirst,
My saliva became sticky,
Like the glue from the mouth of a frog,
Hardly could I swallow my spittle,
My only hope is to look towards heaven,
From where comes my help,
Now it's me to live or die is pain,
Double thoughts rocked my fiddle mind,
As I accepted that my legs walk my body,
Across the border without boundary.
Do you see regret in my voice?
I ask because I could barely hear,
My voice is like the walking sound of a snail,
And my ears is blinded to see,
The ever swift legs suddenly grew old,
Yet, nothing is changing,
Never let me think of crying,
I won't want to try it,
My decision to join the wagon,
It came from greed to belong,
And to share my story of overseas,
Life we only know from a distance.
Dedicated to the many people who traveled the desert to escape the injustices and extra judicial killings of bandits but yet still died in the quest to finding a new home but hopelessly paid the ultimate price, death.