Marcia

Falling upon an unknown land,
Marcia is holding the cross in her hand,
Stamping her feet across the desert sand,
Her very life has become a contraband.
Staging herself within the midst of life
Screaming in agony, far past the bars she holds.
Begging for redemption, as she stares at the sky,
Dead in the night, more hungry than cold. 
The sounds of bombs can be heard in the distance, 
She's begging to hear the screams, not the silence.
Not caring that she's standing on someone's vomit,
Begging & pleading for the end of the violence. 
6 months without the sign of a druid,
What's left in the mind is the memory of home. 
Dying, now weaker, she stands no longer,
Laying beside a book about the history of Rome. 
It's all the same, bold text to reality,
A mask that she's ripped from what she once wore. 
She hears the march of the Catalonian people,
Realizing that she's free, a slave no more. 
Over the shoulders, she stares back to see,
Months of lies, no longer the contraband.
A new life she begins, a victim of war,
The cross left behind, sinking in the sand.