The march of death. The steady stomp of worn out boots on the beaten earth. The labored breathing of the dozen who have survived this long. We started with over five hundred, right now twelve march beside me. No water, even less food. No hope, no pride. We were all happy to start, now all we want to do is get back to our families. Beaten, broken, we are weak, but we are still men.
May 31, 2012