by Nick Gisburne
The fugitives are riddled with disease
Their fevered faces thick with ash and smoke
The stench of death contaminates the breeze
They suffer, yet they do not dare to choke
The sentinels are trained to shoot on sight
A careless move may trigger an alert
And so a steady, creeping crawl, at night
Propels them through this wilderness of dirt
They bake within the hot concealment suits
As every savage insect hunts for blood
Beyond the marshes, rotting in their boots
The final, brutal miles of toxic mud
They cross the border, broken, but alive
And mourn for those too feeble to survive
