I have stood beneath the desert sun,
Where Saudi sands stretched to the horizon,
And listened to men over coffee
Talk about the government,
The cost of living,
And how things were better years ago.
I have sat beneath a baobab tree in Mali,
Where the roads were rough
And the days were long,
And heard fathers wonder
What kind of future awaited their children.
I have watched fishermen in Belize
Mend their nets by the sea,
Shaking their heads at change,
Speaking fondly of a village
That once moved at a gentler pace.
I have shared tables in Mexico,
Walked streets in Belgium,
And returned home to Canada,
Only to discover
The conversations never really changed.
The accents were different.
The currencies were different.
The food, the customs,
The religions and the politics
Were worlds apart.
Yet somehow,
The worries were the same.
People feared for their families.
They hoped for better days.
They questioned their leaders.
They wondered where the money went.
They worried about housing,
About work,
About growing old.
Every nation seemed convinced
Its troubles were unique.
Every nation believed
No one else could understand.
But after enough miles,
Enough borders,
Enough years spent living
As both a stranger and a neighbor,
I began to see something different.
The flags were different.
The people were not.
Beneath every flag
Lives a father trying to provide,
A mother trying to protect,
A young person chasing opportunity,
And an old person remembering
A world that may never have existed
Quite the way they recall.
The world is vast,
Yet strangely familiar.
And the longer I travel,
The less I see countries,
And the more I see people.
Different flags.
Same conversations.
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