{this is a work of fiction}
They came from the far bank of the dying river, flapping their wings and squawking to each other. They fluttered over the grassy knoll and waddled about, their long necks bobbing as they quacked. The geese had waded through the mud of their river, once gushing with overflow and vibrant with river greens, to get to this side, at the end of the season. Looking ahead to the uncertain future, they prepare for the long journey ahead.
They reminisce of a rosy summer, regret the transformation from fair weather, resign to the change in the season, and talk of a new spring in another place. They take only what they can carry close to their bodies, leaving behind the heavy burdens and the nests they had built, leaving them to the callous winter. Yet, all they can talk of is the future. They fly on the winds of hope. What use is it to pity them?
I have heard the flock of geese say to each other, “Where do we go after we die?” One answered, “In the country of rich men, where learned peoples come together, they dine on fattened goose liver nightly, and toast each other on their abstruse accomplishments.”
“Gavage,” piped up another, “is the ceremony wherein the chosen goose is fed and fattened for the honor of appearing at the table. If you die doing good deeds, won’t you have good fortune?”
“Yes, yes,” they all squeaked, bobbing their heads in unison. One, looking uncertain, posed the question, “What if one does not wish to be pâté?”
“Don’t be silly,” the others squawked, “Who does not wish to be full? But the real goal is to be the man. One step at a time!”
Then raising their wings all at once, they began their migration, some northward and others westward. All disappeared into the mercy of the inconstant winds. How much suffering can you swallow?
They came from the far bank of the dying river, flapping their wings and squawking to each other. They fluttered over the grassy knoll and waddled about, their long necks bobbing as they quacked. The geese had waded through the mud of their river, once gushing with overflow and vibrant with river greens, to get to this side, at the end of the season. Looking ahead to the uncertain future, they prepare for the long journey ahead.
They reminisce of a rosy summer, regret the transformation from fair weather, resign to the change in the season, and talk of a new spring in another place. They take only what they can carry close to their bodies, leaving behind the heavy burdens and the nests they had built, leaving them to the callous winter. Yet, all they can talk of is the future. They fly on the winds of hope. What use is it to pity them?
I have heard the flock of geese say to each other, “Where do we go after we die?” One answered, “In the country of rich men, where learned peoples come together, they dine on fattened goose liver nightly, and toast each other on their abstruse accomplishments.”
“Gavage,” piped up another, “is the ceremony wherein the chosen goose is fed and fattened for the honor of appearing at the table. If you die doing good deeds, won’t you have good fortune?”
“Yes, yes,” they all squeaked, bobbing their heads in unison. One, looking uncertain, posed the question, “What if one does not wish to be pâté?”
“Don’t be silly,” the others squawked, “Who does not wish to be full? But the real goal is to be the man. One step at a time!”
Then raising their wings all at once, they began their migration, some northward and others westward. All disappeared into the mercy of the inconstant winds. How much suffering can you swallow?
"What they took with them" by UNHCR, the UN Refugee Agnecy
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