by Nick Gisburne
They stagger through the desert in their droves
A caravan of sorrows, raw and red
At last they fall, to rest and light the stoves
To cook a meagre meal of scraps and bread
The smugglers work for money, nothing more
And yet, at night, another debt is due
Collected in the shadows, on the floor
The lonely, bitter burden of the few
Allowed no word of protest, no dissent
The desert gives them nowhere else to go
Their money, and their freedom, stolen, spent
What life, or death, awaits, they do not know
The daylight drags them on, towards their dreams
But darkness brings the sorrow of their screams
