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.