I have no real road to follow now; I can only move onward into the unknown. Not back. Not ever. Instead, I carry the maps of my past on my palms, crudely illustrated with lives ended and blood spilt: roads I know I shall never walk again.
SHORTLISTED, EDINBURGH FESTIVAL COMPETITION, 2020 I turn my back on the border, behind which lies the country and culture that moulded me. I look down at my open hands, the lines etched in my skin crisscrossing like roads on an old parchment map. Blood and dirt run through the routes, clumping at junctions and overflowing at dead ends.
I have no real road to follow now; I can only move onward into the unknown. Not back. Not ever. Instead, I carry the maps of my past on my palms, crudely illustrated with lives ended and blood spilt: roads I know I shall never walk again.
Mary Wallace
17/8/2020 05:21:08 pm
Beautifully told. Well done.
Sue Clayton
18/8/2020 02:30:56 am
Speaks of a refugee who holds his past life in his hands while bravely moving into an unknown future. Heartfelt piece.
David
18/8/2020 09:02:51 am
Beautiful writing. I like the poetry in this piece. Comments are closed.
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"Classic"
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