By Eileen Clarke
A lone drum beating, the whistles blow,
The calves, the sheep, in a sad cargo.
The animals are coming now
To pass us on their way.
No hope or relief for them;
Only night and never day.
"It's their bewildered faces that make
Me want to cry," said Jane,
Empathizing with the Innocents
For their grief and fear and pain.
She looked out to sea between
The gap the boats sail through.
"It's their gateway to hell," she cried -
And I thought the same way too.