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Immigration stories: the Jus Soli’s tale

Stories and News No. 1005

I continue on my usual path in search of the perfect story to give the best picture of what is happening in the world today…

Once upon a time there were them.
The world’s patrols, or I should say the sky.
With a neck perpetually anguished, forcing eyes and heart to see migrant invaders roaming from every cardinal point.

Indomitable and stubborn creatures, committed to denounce the immense occupation of their personal History’s vision.
"Damn swans," they shouted with their throat flushed by liveliness, "go back to your nest."
"Dirty ducks" burning others, "you are not like us."
"Certainly," someone replied, "they are ducks..."
"Buddy, are you in or what?"
You know, dialogues were ever like that, simple and confused as the stupidest lies usually are.
"Uncivil swallows", many strung to bring common attention to the target, the only possible, "you won’t take our place."
"Infidel flamingos", shouted a lot more, "you won’t convert us to your God."
"And what is ours?" Another voice came out of the chorus.
"Surely it doesn’t look like a flamingo," said someone alongside.
Typical exchange between the folds of a crowd fond of constant clamor, where you have no idea what are the most unlikely between questions and answers.
"Intruded quails," shouted
loudly some of them, just to preserve the rhythm, "you are here only to steal and laze."
"We will not allow you to sweep us away," exclaimed others, "sons of geese."
"We’ve planned we would not insult them," some disagreed.
"But it's not an insult, we meant geese..."
"No, buddy, I’m saying literally..."
Another recognizable aspect in the crowd easy to gnash, the muddled misunderstandings without light on the horizon.
"Cormorants, fly to those others", some screamed by pulling out the old refrain, "let’s see how they’ll treat you..."
"Sky to us," many synthesized, "and the nightingales to the... hem… the Nighingaland?"
In other words, the inevitable, distinctive sign of the masses of brainless dissatisfaction, with the total absence of foundation into the delusional boundary wall around their head.
Too tight, most of the time.
Once upon a time there where them, then.
The bastions of nothing.
With the beak obsessively aimed at the inalienable right to survive and travel.
Of lives who migrate above them.
That will never fly.
Poor chickens...

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