Like animals they were crammed
into a lorry which criss-crossed
the continent. They paid vast sums
to human traffickers who are surely damned.
the image of a young woman plays in my mind:
pretty, Vietnamese with red lipstick
bringing the real horror to my soul,
she left her dear ones behind
her last message causing tears in my eyes
saying she was dying and stating her love
to her family thousands of miles away,
I can't imagine the awful cries.
the door was opened but far too late,
39 sufficated bodies met the gaze
of those who witnessed the sickening scene,
nobody should ever suffer such a fate.
they were trapped inside a mobile tomb
and although the world mourns now
you can be certain it will soon forget
as we hear other tales of doom.
but the the woman's last message haunts me,
she was told our streets were paved with gold
yet only sightless eyes stared
in a lorry full of corpses...crossing the sea.
This is the section where fiction prose becomes something else. We still expect the poems to be short, though – sonnets, perhaps, or around that length at the very most.