On the walk to their death they sing.

I can see it, one step in front of the other, a mind willing a body to move – sending the thought through the nervous system, down the spine and to the muscle with an urge for it to fire and fire and fire. And walking is like falling, over and over again, and being caught, over and over again.

On the walk to their death they sing.

Wondering, why. Why are they alive at this moment and in this place and with this birthright. Curious about the question, why not? Why not me? Why would they be spared from all that crushes humanity – an economy, a skin tone, an atmosphere, a virus, ever so tiny, ever so powerful.

On the walk to their death they sing.

Humming the tones that the ancestors breathed into their cells, a collective memory of pain – scaling its way up all the sharp keys and flat keys – all the way to joy.

On the walk to their death they sing.

Wishing for a conduction from here to there, wherever there is. A garden. The jagged mountain top. The bottom of the sea. The stratosphere. The palm of her hand. Their freedom.