They advance on a little blue
army
and hold their
breaths
when the
teargas comes
in thick white
clouds
until their lungs burn for
equity.
They don't try to hide the
tears
that stream as one tear
and soak into the
handkerchiefs and
scarves
pulled over their noses
to hide their
faces
like they are
banditos of old.
They throw
molotov cocktails
and they burst on the asphalt like the
fireworks they throw
at the
fiestas,
and if you dare to move in close
and snap a
picture for your
magazine,
you might see the hate behind the blood in their eyes.