They are Marching

Cold, in a fog

getting thicker,

in a timelessness

gnawed by hunger,

they rest their

muddy shoes,


with the cry of children.

Their feet bask

on the asphalt of a world

thought to be a dream,

waiting for awakening,

among the naked walls

of tribulations.

They murmur prayers

silently on a garland of 

drops of their sweat.

Nothing else but


gets through their words

of indistinct shreds.

Pennies filled with pity

fall into 

their laps.

While sweating blood,

they march 

into their deaths.