Silence can cut to the bone too. It can be as cold as the stone walk-ways of London and the lake rocks of Sidney Lanier. I miss the skeletal coral reef of the Ganges, they say it's the Mother of the world, only a few know that she too, dies.
It's fun being a foreign bird with bright-torch-lit-eyes wherever you go, the people, the cindering pyres and their ashen faces all look away. They're hard to look at, knowing what we know, never speaking, never saying it aloud, they're like fragile pieces of shattered pearls, broken teeth and broken skulls on the asphalt.