Leaving

By Hannah McAuliffe, 2nd Year.

My breath rises in a mist, 

I take my first step.

Leaving poverty behind, 

Is it all in my head?

What will I see? 

Where will I go? 

Will it be the same 

As my left behind home?

My stomach churns,  

My palms sweat,  

Will I make it there alive? 

Never doubt death.

My family wave 

As I excrete a tear, 

I’ll make it back soon, 

Perhaps next year.

My case in my hand, 

A gesture of hope, 

A movement of change, 

A past left behind.

Object No. 95 Emigrant's suitcase, 1950s
National Museum of Ireland - Country Life

No Comments

Start the ball rolling by posting a comment on this page!

Add a comment about this page

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *