A somber tapestry, river of tears, flows like a mournful hum through those who walked on the soil there. 

In desolation, their pieces of glasses were shattered, left to be entombed. 

And swept from the sky, the constellations were torn; like when water spills on ink on paper.

It was, then, a flickering candle that held their hand, every second through every gust of wind. 

In a place of silent spectators, a canvas painted in hues of black, gray, there only was fire blaze behind the fence.