Our World Is Ours

I was sitting at an airport, looking at the people's ramble, as a wind mill moves with the wind, left to right and then right to left. There were gentlemen in coats, pretty ladies exposed petticoats, screaming toddlers in the prams, unruly children on the roam. People were checking in one by one, Suitcases of dark pink, violet and brown, Wheels carried them while the men pull the strap, there was this guy with a plastic shopping bag. Well dressed young man in twenties, might have carried another set of cloth, wanted to check in his belongings, to the amusement of the regulars. He was an immigrant worker, traveling thousand miles, across the oceans to find green, that denied even for his dream. What land was sold to dress him, and provide him that plastic bag? How much loan taken to pay the agent, and for his air ticket? He held his head high, and I saw the hope in his eyes, For a human whose immigrant Indian father is her Idol, she saw her own father in that young lad.