The Beast

This piece is for the migrants who died,
Or survived,
Or have been maimed,
For the poor in search of a better life,
Praying,
That their dreams come true,
When they faced the Beast.

Those who traveled thousands of miles,
Along the countryside,
Through cities and towns of Mexico
On the way north,
Through the dangers and perils
Of gangs and robbers
Crooked cops,
Beaten and raped,
Who have lost limbs
Under the wheels of the iron horse
But the Beast doesn’t care.

This is for the countless stories
And some that go untold
Of the dismembered bodies along the tracks
Wailing in the night,
Those buried in graves without names,
Called in prayers by relatives in the distance,
Tears filled with fears
Escaping corrupt police,
And blood thirsty criminals,
Constantly on the attack.
The journey to freedom is a costly one,
By muggings, brutal beatings and sexual assault,
To frighten the people…
The migrants who die under the wheels of the iron horse,
Poor and desperate looking to escape,
And those who are caught
They are sent back home in the bus of tears
And many try the journey north, again and again.

So many have died,
So many have been disfigured by man and machine,
But their spirit,
Still willing to reach freedom,
In search of relatives and parents,
Can’t be broken.
In a war with no name,
These children go through hell
To once again embrace their mothers
Looking for answers and wanting to feel love
And joy, and laughter...
Their brown faces filled with hope
That they’ll reach the north
That they survived the Beast
And tell stories of those who died.