Grasping the fabric at
The bottom of her
Tattered shirt
The white of her
Knuckles apparent
Through her
Grim clad hands

Tears accumulated,
Formulating tracks
Down her cheeks

Walking barefoot,
Through the desolate
Land she use to
Call home

Memories of yesterday played:
Burning of her village,
Capturing of her mother,
The death of her younger brother,
Amongst the many others.

A familiar rumble
Much like the ones
Of yesterday

Her mind is made.

Her feet carry her through
The burned brush to the
Outskirts of the dirt path

Her thought aches from
The air she sucked in
Her lips stung from
Her teeth she bit down with

The intangible weight was
Too much to carry

A tank appears a
Hundred meters away

The girl releases
The shirt from her grasp
And thought back

Breath forms an irregular pattern.

The tank is half the distance.

The memories invade her.

The tank is a few meters away.

The memories of before
The Americans
Had come

The simpler times.

The tank is here.