When you never leave the place
Where you were born,
You are more like a tree than a person.
An old person, an old tree,
With roots deep under the city.
And when you’re with others
Who talk of exotic lands,
You remain silent,
Feeling the strong winds of fate
Moving through your crown of leaves,
From every direction
Space entering your branches.
And they who are speaking
Become more and more distant,
The voices of birds
Departing for southern skies.
Salvatore Ala 
I am no tree. I am a migrant. Where is my ‘home’? This country in which I live is not really my ‘home’, but it is the birthplace of my children and they belong to this land. My old land is not the same homeland I lived in – it has changed, the family I loved there are dead. So I am a bird on the wing…
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You could be my own father, rest in peace, talking to me. His birthplace was devastated by war. I suppose that’s why I chose the title “Birthright” as the starting point for human dignity. Thank you for your thoughtful comment. I am sorry that all your loved ones back home are dead. I remember my father mourning the losses from across the ocean. That’s something else entirely. Best wishes. Salvatore.
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