The pallid distance alit with smoke

Grey haze, an ugly smudge to match

The ugliness around them.

It was acrid, pungent with

A tear-bringing spell to cast amidst the fields

Of burning eyes and burning hearts.

Well, hearts, no. Nor eyes.

Not much was said that day, where fire befell

Two poor and useless brats with guts to spare

And lives to spare and waste on foolish things.

Not much was said that day, when dusk

Buried them beneath the shore

Or rather—cast them into wind

(As fire has such properties to break down

Skin and nail and tooth and bone

Till peeling memories memories stared down and

Shook their heads in disdain)

The fire burned, alright.

Alight to soothe the lucky, and

All bright to end the pain.