Refraction.

Pompeii.

The Earth herself shuddered -
It wasn't easy to see the sky spitting ash
In the same way that it was so difficult
To see her lover coughing up blood.
No handkerchief, no brick wall
Could cover the pain, disguise
The impending destruction of all that she
Had ever held dear.
Those that she nurtured, gone with only
Skeletal remains curled up
Amongst the rubble; everything else had become nothing.
It had been quite some time since the day
That the smog had obscured the cobbles
From the tender hold of the sun,
And yet the coldness had not gone away.
It lingers, like the silhouettes of the dead
That are scorched into the floor...
Neither time nor strength can cleanse them,
And the return of the sun cannot faze them,
Thus a void has grown within her.
Pompeii will never be the same: those skeletons
Will not regrow their flesh,
And the crumbling buildings cannot
Be repaired.
Alas, a smile flits across her face when she remembers
The laughter of the children,
The delights that they took from playing in her streams
And feeding upon the fruit that she provided.
They are gone, as are their families and friends,
Each of which had a face and a name
That she could recall warmly...
With that fondness, she staves off the cold.
Perhaps the children will not laugh again,
Or be present to play in her streams or feed on her fruit,
But the water is still running, and the fruit
Is still growing.
That, she believes, is the best that she can do
To pay homage to the children, family and friends,
But also to herself and her feelings too.