Darfur


by
Peter Frickel

The single line pathway

moved humans 

carrying empty pails of sorrowed hunger

and despair they should never have owned.

Some brought extended bellies

swollen lips and cleaved tongues,

others empty eyes,

faces cracked 

and scabbed skin 

where tears had dried. 

And the dogs

that came on burnt paws,

that pulled tails across stones, 

whimpered for those they left to die.

We walked 

slowly 

into miles, 

to the horizon,

to a town.

Some groaned,

stopped and dropped

with voices that gurgled 

between cracked lips, 

before they died.

For each that crumpled

I bent down.

Besides,

with a prayer, 
I pressed eye lids closed.

With whites covered 

each rested 

in their dark,

our misery unwanted.

By the edge of the town

with thinned ranks

we stood still 

to feel the pain, 

to let it run away.

to remember friends and family 

who like fallen sign posts 

now mark our way.

Bodies lying lost upon acarpous soil 

tell others

who seek shelter, 

‘it doesn’t hurt anymore.'