“Passengers on board” are the words that the migrant hears, just when the asphalt is served. There waits nostalgia, and hope. They go semi-barefoot, and with clouded minds.
In the body go the frames of hunger and that desire to live. That is all that leads who changes status, between borders, between tears, between mountains; and in just seconds it passes from the joy of having a nation, to asking for a flag.
Venezuela is on their heads as one who takes care of thoughts, as who protects the memory of oblivion. It is not just a cap.
Venezuela is also them; they are his achievements, his tracks, his mistakes and his deafening silences. A silence that is as ours as the ruin that is silent, that suffers humiliated. The one that lowers his head to moments, and raises it at times. When he hears his soul; the only one who speaks of the sigh that they will be friends, will be compadres, will be Sundays of the day of the mother.
The silence is lost and it catches you; moving away as a nation and the return is longer. The perpetual tragedy of the mother who is not on her Sunday, of the son who is not in the embrace of her mother.
The crisis of utopia was built by lies, the same that built fear, the marginal drunkenness of the dictatorship bathed in red, and dressed in blood, in the bellies of refugees. To be poor without hope is less than to be with guarantees of faith. The silence that distances the migrant is the same that brings us closer to oblivion.
Solitudes as a whole are in my country, feeling the gaps that are accompanied in the silent horizons. Where they inhabit the laughter that hide the asphyxiated throats, and bodies adrift.
I insist, because by insisting I build the beginning at the end of this path; where will we wait, where will we start.
Written by Jhon A. Romero.-