a child lays, curled and broken, alone and afraid, her face buried into the
ashes. Tears fall silently from her eyes. Now is not the time for sound.
Let the earth as it slowly turns to black fill with the noises of the night.
Let not the whimpers of a suffering child be heard. The night is too calm.
The air is too warm. Even the birds sleep peacefully in their nests, and
the crickets and frogs sit together in harmony. The only interuption in this
unnatural melancoly is the soft flickering glow of fireflies. Their light lingers
in the still, dark air, lighting up the wet streaks on a little girl's face. Her eyes
are closed, her body is trembling, but not for much longer. Not much longer.