Seventeen months...

They were Circassians.

For over 130 years lived in Syria.

Than the town bombed, their homes destroyed.

Families dead.

They had nothing to lose,

held each other's hands and went on the way.

They did not join a group,

didn't payd for smugglers to drown in the sea.

They took the landway, simply walked away

passing destroyed towns, across deserts

over mountains, trough valleys...

Rivers they crossed

peaceful or rough countries.

For seventeen months they were on the way.

Had good people met and bad

they saw destructed life, violence so many.

Forced into hiding and going away.

Nowhere they could stay.

The path was staying the goal.

They came to the land of their ancestors

but there wasn't just a good place.

They moved further north

feet they wore far.

Fatigue and dust of the journey in their faces.

In the endless vast they stopped for a break.

Leaning against each other, they sat in front of their small tent

under the large tent of stars

and she asked:

Do you hear them singing?

And he heard it too.

Far in the distance.

someone was singing.

And through the song sounds a little bit

like home.

Witten for Wednesday Wit and Wisdom

The exercise is to write a story to a picture.

Today I've changed it and wrote to a song.