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La Bestia
Fingernails rusted a shade of muddy brown. He squeezed his eyes
Closed shut like an agitated toddler. Detecting the grip from his
Father to look for Las Patronas.
Oh, the feeling that water can allude when one hasn’t drunken a
Sip in days relieves the soul in a way that no one can.
Digging away at the constrictions of poverty to uncover the misguided
diplomacy that boils to the surface reveals each plan to flee. Crimson
Red blood paints the path each migrant takes on the world map.
He hears the roar of La Bestia and scurries up to the bare top of the
Train. Even the stars in the sky cannot bare to watch the horrors of
La Bestia.
Meeting the eyes of prospective migrants and their yet sullied
Dreams, a man wanders too far off of the American dream.
Do not shift around too much.
Este es El Tren de la Muerte.
How many migrants do not survive this journey:
Not one, not two, not fifty, but hundreds.
Each swallowing their fear and eating their regrets. La Bestia
Leaves no time for regrets.
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This poem is about the journey many migrants take by train to travel to the United States from Latin nations.