Ode to the immigrant
Who would write about the plight of immigrants if we wouldn’t?
I’ve traveled for such a long time that sojourning feels tireless. So much wandering for so many generations… The former lands of my late relatives appear from afar like strange custom.
It’s all time’s fault. It always is because it encourages us to move on and there’s no turning back when you do. Even if I wanted, I cannot get the answer from the frozen black-and-white images in pictures taken over a century ago. What did they search so hard for in foreign lands?
I’m nobody but a process, a link on an endless human chain, they may respond to my question and return to their near-interminable silence.
But thanks for allowing me to share my thoughts and tell you that what lies over yonder, over that hill where it’s supposedly greener, only lives hope.
If I’d have to describe hope, it’s nothing more than a transit lounge of humanity where paths of life extend in every direction. Such trails are decorated on both sides by Earth’s bountiful and sometimes breathtaking landscapes.
Milan, Italy, March 4, 2001