On the road to nowhere this August morning,

mistletoe flourishing in pines; butterflies, butter

yellow in the sun, rising in the softening air.

A woodland pastoral of hope, and symbiosis,

as the learned amongst are saying.

We are moving under guard, women, children, elders.

They are taking us to safety, they say. A better

place, less crowded than our ghetto

where families cannot breathe, our men

pursue their trades. Everything is hopeful

with the freshening air, the straight ahead,

the comfort of our gold and treasures in our cases.

Take it with you, they said. For your better days to come.

So a day of laughter, and soldiers with our children

on their backs. Of mistletoe and dancing wings.

Now they halt us in the road. The sun burns

on the way forwards. Gleams with the future.

Into the trees, they say. Rest in the cool.

We have water for the children. And so we walk

among the pines where someone has been tapping them

for resin, their needles soft beneath our feet,

And here we rest. There is talk of the destination,

of sleeping at nightfall.

Ahead there is digging, and lining of people

And silence, then moaning. And firing.