A tribute to ashen faces beneath rubble. A broken glass of blood. Everything burns in this poem, hurts and burns again. Sometimes I ask myself what are words worth of when the only device capable of change now is terror? Maybe the mere act of reminding found in poetry is valuable and capable of a slow-paced change, too? The author trains a gun on the face of neglect, perhaps we are reminded that some spots in the world refract but black rainbows. I saw the picture which triggered this gem. Devastating to say the least. A train of ugly thoughts even crossed my mind then. Is the will to live and survive this overwhelming? Why live? And what for? To keep on breathing chaos?! The irony!