Both ends of the road

Both ends of the road

Refugees caravan

If you stayed

you were dead,

if you leave,

you are probably dead,

or maybe there's hope.

You decided to go.

Bear-foot on the road

your home town 

was soon a dot 

on the horizon.

On you went, 

and some more

joined you then.

Shared needs,

shared hunger,

shared days,

shared nights,

and some joys, 

but for the most part

it's been pains.

More joined you.

The journey's been long.

Your thirst's been so strong.

They don't care.

Some do, and

they talk.

Some compassion

feeds you,

and then on you go.

The journey's so long,

your feet hurt,

but you have to go, 

and you go, 

and you go.

When it's dark

in the silence you cry,

but it's useless 

you know.

There's no hope in your town.

They'd kill you anyway

if you stayed.

And if you go

you may die midway,

you know that very well.

Their little feet bleeding

when they walk alongside

may your stomach so small

but your tears are dry.

You carry them some time,

but they're so many in the end, 

there's no way to help.

One day you hear the news

"they won't enter, no way"

"we are building a wall,"

"if they come anyway,

we will send them the troops",

and "we'll close our door".

But your tears are dry,

there's not a way back.

You'll die anyway,

and maybe there is hope. 

By the thousands you walk

and your feet hurt some more.

You are hungry, and thirty and sick.

There is death at both ends of the road,

maybe someone will help.

And you walk,

by the thousands you walk.

Maybe there's hope

Maybe someone'd help.

They are taking your children away,

you don't know where they'd go,

not even time to tell them goodbye;

they're gone now,

but your tears are dry.

Maybe there is hope.

Maybe someone'd help.

You don't know,

you just walk;

there is probably death

at both ends of the road.

Celsa