Her brown, little fingers,
dirty fingernails,
clinging casually to the fence,
thirty feet above the ground,
on this bridge between two countries.
She hangs there, feet on a ledge,
precarious, smiling at me.
"Como se llama?"
"Lola."
Her sad, begging eyes brightened,
and she smiled at me through the fence.
I wish I could feed her, clothe her,
shower her with gifts and love,
and another place,
I wish I could take her in my arms,
and lift her out of her misery,
I wish for her it was all a dream,
something to wake out of.
Sadly, I stroke her young fingers,
through the fence.
I can walk away,
but Lola can't.