You came to me in Paris, from the streets of the suburbs, or the banlieue, as you called it. You shared a face like mine, plastered with invisible scars from journeys afar, and your eyes saw me without that glimmer of distrust which marked the brief glows of passers-by. You seemed kinder, more compassionate to those whose lives had suffered from compassionless people in the past. You made it clear that you were out of place. You too were torn from your home and eventually drifted to this city, with the brilliant Eiffel Tower that towered now in the distance, behind the closing curtains of night. We sat then, and talked for a while - we talked and talked. From South Sudan, you had come, years ago, years ago, and still you remained alone. Your family had never come. You stayed there, you needed to. But Paris had never been your liberation. You laughed, and, seeing my longing eyes set on the centre of the capital, passed me a handful of euros to see me on my way. ’You’
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