Immigration

Immigration I walked along the old road it was replaced in 1951 by the new road, Nothing much left, it ends at a stone wall. Yet, one can still see the mark the cart wheels carts made and if you look closely you can see the hoof track of man’s best friend the donkey and if you look over the wall you can see man and mule ploughing the soil one furrow at the time. The people here was a robust race those who survived the hardship of a childhood lived to be old as the stones in the field. They had nothing in the fifties but wanted more so they found work in the industrial France and their women cleaned houses when coming returning they built houses big as the highborn but their children stayed in France, they had embraced modernity. For them, as they sink into indifference, the valiant struggle of their race is forgotten as the hoof mark in the sand of time: until one asks who Am I, where do I come from? And the answer is as silent as the passing of time and they will see the ruins of their grandparent humble abode sit down and cry, caress the stones and lament the loss.