The Short Journey

They are running from camp to camp, carrying all that they have, big bundles mounted on their head with an appointment to meet the dead. A few weeks ago, they had a fortified home with maid service, manicurist and a massage therapist, they had a yard boy to mow the lawn and a trainer to work out a dawn. Their private security stands guard at the gate and an in-home doctor and dentist is on base to perform crucial service. Now they are walking from street to street with no specific destination insight and a burden that is heavy as ten bags of rice. They are moving around in groups, some walking without shoes, dry lips burnt in the sun, and dehydration and hot feet drain the energy from their body. Life has no specific appointment or carved out destination, when the temperature change you have to change with it and run or you will perish in the burning sun. You cannot sit around in that place; you must keep moving and hold up your face, if you keep looking into the ground; gravity will pull you straight into the earth and the heart that is made up steel will melt into the dirt. I have tried hard and long to figure it out but the violence in the city makes me want to shout, little girls and boys are buried alive and there is no room for anyone to survive. Buildings are lying on top of buildings and rubbles are full of dead troubles, there is no machine to remove the long beams; the men are loitering around, and the women are nowhere to be found. Everything happen so fast and there is hardly anyone at the Wailing wall to tell you what’s going on. The streets are bare and empty, and the siren is playing music in their ears. Some people are used to it but the man over there cannot bear it. They finally found a spot to lay down their bundle, but as they start to erect a tent a missiles files over their head, and land in the tent next to them. It struck four people dead and then they realize that they were in the middle of war, they went over the other side and stare at the universe seeking for new answers, but they ask their own questions and answer them. For days they did not eat, and they had to scramble in the street and raid the aid trucks looking for something to eat, and at nights they have to put-up with the horrible stench that is baked into the village around them. The sky with its entire troubles hangs above them and the clouds keep rolling by listening to their cries and the journey never ends.