Through dust and wind the plastic dance;
Beneath the churning grey advance;
Her steps methodical and true;
Only her fears, they did pursue.

The town sits quiet, tense and tight;
Collective breath held through the night;
Row by row, huts small and crude;
Makeshift homes for those pursued.

Her dreams, a playground for the dead;
Her past held loosely in her head;
She trudges forth, o’er bog, through field;
Knowing what that day would yield.

Upon the berm the watchman waits;
Scanning for the telltale traits;
His practiced eye, perfected gaze;
As each successive child he weighs.

From ‘top the wall he spots his prey;
‘Halt’, but will the girl obey?
Leaping down to close the gap;
Quarry found now to entrap.

What makes the fire a girl-child be?
Why does she die? A mystery;
Salvation lies two steps beyond;
By ridding herself of what she’d donned.

Child and watchman are no more;
Aggregates for those keeping score;
Eternity in their death embrace;
They’re now blanked out, without a trace.