Age of Migration

By Melanie Barbato - Immenstadt, Bavaria, Germany - 21 November 2014



Some call it a race
They sleep in their boots
With their car keys in reach
When the water dries up
They will be first at the water again


Some call it their journey
They trace their finger print lines
Like a crop circle maze
And mirror gaze at the
Northern lights in their eyes

Some call it freedom
They build the road as they
Walk through a borderless country
Their steps have no home till
They set down their foot


These are the nomads
Whatever story they tell
In the end they will say
Success is the efficient exploitation of dearth
Then move on


Another group may stay behind for a while
Lighting a candle
Tending the sick
Praising the plenty in song
These are the pilgrims
They're too on the way


They call it a race
For the evergreen wreath
Like athletes they practise
In all things constraint


They call it a journey
To heaven beyond
Their train welcomes in
The weak and the strong

They call it freedom
To know right from wrong
As they follow the way
And devotion its highest form