We wait for the wind
to push the clouds further
to our side, just enough
to hide the moon this November night.
The air is sharp.
By then, the village where we had stayed
dwindles in a distance.
The warmth of the fire, we made, last night
still clings to our skin; Faces we met,
sinks in our memory.
We push ourselves through the sugarcane field.
The sound of our feet drowns
with the sound of leaves.
Leaves beating upon more leaves
as the whole field waltzes in the wind.
Dogs bark at a distance.
The air around us freezes.
Fear creeps, our breath is held low
We leave our land, step by step
as we walk through the night
towards the edge of the border
where our  country ends.