Words (passport)

We are queued up in front of the glass cages. Equal, no one can escape this line, no one who wants to enter a country. As that is why we are here, to enter a country, we are equal for a while. We carry our plastic bags, our Vuittons, our wallits and glasses, our babies, our sorrows, impatience and passports. And then, much later, it's our turn, we differ from each other, we belong to a country, or a country belongs to us, in front of some glass cages so much easier to be Danish than South African. So much more complicated to be West Indien than British in front of others. A mother is tired. I hold her child. No idea where they come from. The little girl is not quite old enough to hold her head, so we hold it for her, no one would let it fall. Would I lie for my country? Would I die for my country? Would I let a head fall before it could hold itself, for my country? Soon it's my turn. I give the baby back.