What a migrant carries

On board all passengers that the pavement is served. Hope for nostalgia awaits them, hope. The feet are tired because they go semi-barefoot ... minds clouded.

Scaffolding of hunger and eagerness to live, is all that takes who changes of status, between borders, between tears, between mountains.

... In just seconds it passes from the joy of having a nation, to asking for a flag.

It is not just a tricolor cap. The country is on their heads as who defends the thoughts, as who protects the memory of oblivion.

Venezuela is also them, their traces, their achievements, their mistakes. But, above all, its silent sounds. That silence is ours, it is the ruin that is silent, that suffers humiliated, that it lowers its head to moments, and it goes back up at times, when it hears its soul; the only one who tells them about the sigh in which they will be friends, will be compadres, will be Sundays of the day of the mother.

Silence misses, silence imprisons. Silence separates us as a nation, makes the return longer. Perpetuates the misery of the mother who is not on her Sunday, the son who is not in the embrace of his mother.

To be needed without hope is less than to be with guarantees of faith. The crisis of illusion was built by lies, fear, the marginal drunkenness of the dictatorship bathed in red, and dressed in blood, the belly of refugees.

The muteness that distances the migrant is the same that brings us closer to oblivion.

Written by Jhon A. Romero.-