Forty miles outside of Madrid
three twisted piles of metal
bled on the roadside.
The bus rolled by in flashes
like an old movie projector.
My eyes were fixed, scanning
the scene as we passed by.
The cool air inside stung my face
but I could only feel the rocks
passing under the wheels of the bus.
In those brief moments
my mind did not wander at all.
Men worked hastily.
Their lips looked dry and flecked
in the burning summer heat.
Blood seeped into the rocks
under their feet.