Who does that wreath, now converted into a sad rusty wire, honor?
The one who hanged it, is it perhaps the same that lies beneath that collapsed cross?
That Virgin, to which someone entrusted the protection of a soul, now seems to ask for help while melting helpless with the wall that supports it.
How long does memory last? What does it turn into over time?
How can be grief measured?
After death we are cried, then remembered, and later forgotten.
Finally, reduced to an anonymous rusty wire, we may become definitely dead.
