I smelt their blood like
A cloud of ash in the air;
Dreadfully trying to hide their faces
With a pale mask- a thinly made veil,
To urgently curtain over their enigmas

Still, I could see straight through them all;
And the sight of them charred my eyes,
Leaving my mind in an ashtray-
As by tiny little spurs; a question
Of passion was ignited:

If I could ever be a voice to these people-
A people who themselves were so lost
My words to them are yet to be found;

Oh, how to find that which is lost…
Is to understand the pain parallel to such
A terrible grief in itself…
I must lose something myself.