The Syrian Refugees

I invite you to accompany me on this long journey, a journey that I will travel with those who do not want to be protagonists, Syrian migrants, the sordid stories that develop and transcend to the side of an open road the passage by human traffickers, travelers with a little baggage and no definite destination, apart from the illusion of establishing itself in an uncertain country, and there a hypothetical new home; or by the icy and unknown Arctic mountains, a new route, more economic and longer, and ravaged by the mafias of migrant tracts; already in the dark bilge, or clinging to the wood of a ramshackle and insecure boat; or on board the fragility of a patera, luck of the tomb of more than one who manages to embark on it; you go to know if in the border fences of a frizzy barbed wire, clinging, surviving the cruelty of border guards; or astride a white bicycle, painted like this by the snow, a singular means of transport abandoned then in any place, fulfilled its mission; will be to walk, like shadows to the helplessness of the border lines, or on the cold rails of a train from which they see their last wagon depart with the lost hope of occupying a seat in it, or to cling to any part of that swift traveler Which is leaving, without even saying goodbye. It is a painful reality.