The West

My finger tips are blue.
My voice silenced by the rolling of wheels.
The wind cascades through the peaking tents, our temporary home.
It is thick, but not enough to hold for the daggering night.
My doubt seems to overpower me.
The tiny specs of food left on the plate scream out:
“With this last spoonful goes our last hope”.
I ignore.
Trust in the west they say
But what if the stars are showing me another direction.
Big men with big machines surely will save us.
The big men with shiny cars will help.
But why do they drive past?
I look around me.
Am I invisible?
Does the skin I wear block out all the struggles my soul seems to seek?
I ignore.
" I trust in the west. " I say
As the last specs of food left on my plate flies away with the wind.