To Be Half Way There
I took the mangled soccer ball as a symbol, a sign.
We were half way there.
To paradise, to idyll, to food and freedom.
The soles of my shoes were wearing thin.
My coat ripped and buttons missing.
The pack on my back growing heavier.
Memories fresh scars over the scabs.
What we lost before the March.
Must think of what we will gain when we arrive.
Green meadows, clear babbling streams, butterflies, fruit trees.
Life. Breath. Feel. Love. Laugh.
Half way there.
Half way to freedom.
I sang the song to myself.
“Once, far away, long ago
the freedom seekers
fought for rights
and freedom . . .”