Cold Winds of Exile: The morning was still and heavy, the air thick with the weight of unspoken words. Arman stood in the doorway of the small house he had called home all his life. Behind him, the walls were bare; the life that had filled the rooms packed away into small bags of essentials. Ahead lay the unknown.
His mother stood silently, her hands trembling as she adjusted the scarf around his neck. “It’s colder there than you think,” she whispered, her voice breaking. Arman tried to smile, but his lips quivered as he looked into her tear-filled eyes.
His father was next to her, his hand resting heavily on Arman’s shoulder. The man who had always seemed unshakeable now looked smaller, older. He cleared his throat and turned his face away, unable to meet his son’s gaze. “Be strong,” he said, his voice rough. “For us. For yourself.”
The decision had been made days ago, though the family had resisted it for as long as they could. The village was no longer safe, and the rumors of violence inching closer had turned into the distant roar of explosions. Refugees spoke of hope across the mountains and beyond the sea, and while Arman’s parents would never have risked the journey themselves, they could not bear to watch their only son fade in a land of despair.
“I’ll send for you,” Arman said, though he didn’t know how. The promise tasted hollow in his mouth, but he clung to it anyway. It was all he could offer.
His mother pulled him into a tight embrace, her tears soaking into his scarf. “Don’t forget us,” she said. “Promise me you won’t forget.”
“I won’t,” Arman said, his voice barely audible.
The goodbyes dragged like heavy chains, every step away from his parents a weight he could barely lift. When he finally turned to face the path, the cold wind bit at his face, but it was nothing compared to the ache in his chest.
The journey was grueling. The mountains loomed like silent sentinels, their icy peaks a forewarning of the challenges ahead. Each step through the snow and jagged rocks was a battle. Arman’s breath came in short, sharp gasps, and the thin air burned his lungs. He slept in crevices, wrapped in a thin blanket that barely shielded him from the cold, dreaming of the warmth of his mother’s arms and the scent of his father’s pipe.
When he reached the sea, its vastness stunned him. Waves crashed against the rocky shore, the salty spray stinging his face. The boat waiting for him was small and crowded, filled with others like him—eyes hollowed by loss but burning with determination. As the boat pushed off, the horizon swallowed his homeland, and a new, uncertain world stretched before him.
The nights in exile were the hardest. The stars, cold and distant, offered little comfort. Arman would lie awake, his thin blanket pulled tightly around him, listening to the wind howl through the cracks in the shelter walls. There was no one to guide him, no familiar voice to calm his fears or help him navigate this foreign land. Loneliness gnawed at him like a persistent hunger, and sometimes he wondered if the ache of isolation was worse than the cold.
In the stillness of those nights, his mind would drift to the warm country days of his childhood. He remembered the golden fields swaying in the breeze, the laughter of his friends, and the gentle touch of his mother’s hands as she braided his hair. Those memories became his refuge, a place he could escape to when the weight of exile became too much to bear.
Arman also dreamed of love. He hoped that one day, despite the hardships, he would find someone who could fill the void in his heart. Someone who would understand his pain and share in his hopes. In his dreams, he saw a future where laughter replaced the silence and warmth banished the cold. And always, at the edge of those dreams, was the vision of his family. He imagined the moment he would see them again, the joy of their reunion, and the promise of a new beginning.
Through it all, the memory of his parents sustained him. Their faces, their words, their love—they became the fire that kept him moving forward, even when the cold winds of exile threatened to extinguish him.
Arman didn’t know what waited on the other side. He only knew that he had to survive. For them. For himself. For the promise of a future where he could once again say, “I’m home.”
In a small town where dreams were born,
A young boy faced the coming storm,
Forced to leave his home so dear,
Chasing freedom, fighting fear.
His mama’s tears, his father’s pride,
“I’ll return,” he softly lied,
With a suitcase full of broken dreams,
On the road where silence screams.
Cold winds blow in a foreign land,
Lonely nights, no guiding hand,
Still he dreams of warm country days,
Hoping love will find its way.
Snowflakes kiss his weathered face,
Searching for a warm embrace,
Memories of fields so green,
Fade like whispers in between.
Strangers’ faces, distant eyes,
Languages that cloud the skies,
But the hope inside remains,
Lighting paths through sleepless pains.
Cold winds blow in a foreign land,
Lonely nights, no guiding hand,
Still he dreams of warm country days,
Hoping love will find its way.
