As soon as we were up on our feet

We started to migrate across the savanna

Following the herd of bison,

Beyond the horizon,

To new, distant lands.

Children on our backs, expectant,

Eyes alert, all ears,

Sniffing that unsettling landscape, new and unknown.

We are a traveling species,

We have no belongings, only luggage.

We go with the pollen in the wind,

We are alive because we are in motion.

We are never still, we are nomadic.

We are parents, children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren

of immigrants.

What I dream is more mine than what I can touch.

I am not from here, but nor are you . . .

– Jorge Drexler, Movimiento (Movement), 2017 –