my people

The displaced and dejected,  those are my kindred. The ones who don't fit in and don't  belong, those are my people.  From the pogroms to the trail of tears. My soul has walked this earth longing for home. From the early tribes who were scattered and harmed. I seem to carry the wounds in my blood. I unwittingly echo the patterns of nomads and gypsies moved on from wherever their feet would rest. The Ashkenazi and the black foot are merely a part of a deeper story that runs the course of my veins with an ancient voice. I have long wondered why I feel so seperated from my tribe. Perhaps, I know deep in my soul the tragedies of thier stories echoing in my own.