"Grandpa, hey grandpa, tell me, please why did they break that huge tile?" "My innocent grandchild, that's not a tile broken and not a building destroyed and ruined, that's a deep wound inside a terrible wedge as a memory to the innocent victims' sad souls, It's a chapel of cross-stone and altar of hope, capital of Triple Alliance, up to heaven stretched a ringing mass, a stage of noble singers: The temple of the soul salvation of this light-

it's the call of compassion of the mutilated city…
Gyumri was peaceful, proud, joyful city full of talents, with unique face and always hospitable: transferred from the old times with building, street, unique art - City of craftsmen…with church and bell-ringer, humour, song and its doodook is never ready to

upcoming temptation.
And one day suddenly, one misty day, when the cloud closed the whole sky, the bowels blew up,

became tense, swayed; the city ached from terrible pain…
Then stone silence ruled, the sky covered under the grey dust, and a short stop. Then a choked sigh spread. Then shout and lamentation, calls of salvation from the right and from the left, from every corner, from the bottom of the piles of the destroyed Settlement…
Then helping hands from the nearest, far away rescue, from the whole world. Then - small houses instead of prosperous city. Then a poor light, wild night and then…on the verge of disaster - darkness…then fierce bend and endless landing…poignant landing…

It was as if a dream…
The time will pass, years will pass. From generation to generation with efforts, sweat Gyumri will wake up from drowsiness, though in other form, with prosperity and splendour. But the disaster will not become merely a memory and the oblivion will not again our feet hit the stone, and on the bent back of that broken tile a hall is built, where with many thousands of silent evidence they make alert the sad memories of bitter days…So, we'll ask an agitated question why

we were not so careful, indiscreet towards the familiar temptation of the bowels in such way…
Give your hand to me, my little grandchild, and we'll go forward. With the scar of the wound, with the edge of the wedge we'll go down. Then we'll raise our look up to God, capital by capital, with the voice of Song of Songs covered for a moment we'll bend to the right.

Under the ringing awaking with a mild wind before the memory-wall we'll light innumerable holy candles, we'll pray for us and for them to the

heavenly LORD

- for the salvation of the souls of the thousands of People …