This was it, she thought, cradling him in armsthat would never hold another. The sun
beat down on the last of the old yeast farms,
now mouldy. She sobbed and glanced at the gun
that they had primed and left. The burden bore
down on her shoulders. Was it the right
thing to do, or should she allow the night
to swallow her up, the natural law?
But did it matter? No-one left to judge
or point long weatherbeaten fingers.
But still, she thought, the suspicion lingers
that history might bear a lasting grudge.
A sand-encrusted tear ran down her face,
like the frenzied survivor of its race.
