The sign means STOP, to all refugees, it has been years since we have seen any trees.
Rifle and young child upon my shoulder, radiant heat off a Turkish boulder.
Granite boulder on our neighbors land, we seek escape, from a tyrants hand.
Unwelcomed people, we accept a fate, choosing to live, versus war and hate.
The air is thin, the sun warms our backs, free of smoke, and air attacks.
We are here, our will is strong no matter the path, how steep or how long.
I look upon my mothers face, we move forward at the elders pace.
Written for Friday Fictoneers Hosted by our wonderful host Rochelle Wisoff. Thanks Rochelle!
Photo prompt Credit Bjorn Rudberg thanks Bjorn!
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