The immigrant boy calls to me
from behind the fence,
Where is my mother?
I tell him that I don’t know.
Why not? he asks.
A shitty taste rises in my mouth.
It’s called,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,complicity.
The immigrant boy calls to me
from behind the fence,
Where is my mother?
I tell him that I don’t know.
Why not? he asks.
A shitty taste rises in my mouth.
It’s called,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,complicity.
Concise and thought provoking. Just a few words to depict pain and our “complicity”…
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Thank you for your kind comment!
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My pleasure.
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