Wide little eyes watch from behind the door
    fat little fingers grip the wood, until the blood has fled and left them
  white with cold.
   Chill iron fingers of terror curl around the pounding little hearts and      
squeeze
      their childhood from them
   For the demons enter, breaking down the door;
     their guns drawn, blood on their hands, death in their faces.
    The blind ones rise, with effort, with confusion
   curse the lying promise of the empty bottles, laughing at them from  
     the ground
   and having played themselves to the trap, are pushed helpless to the            
  door.

   and the little eyes burn as they read the little minds their story;
    and flood the tiny trembling faces as they shout the silent truth into
        the hollow room
  that with step after echoing footstep, the beloved ones
    the blind and stumbling ones
  are herded with the crack of whips over the edge
   to a buffalo's death
         in the dark.