For the clown from Aleppo, who blew balloons to stop the bomb that killed him in the end.
For the little boy on the Mediterranean Sea in that punctured rubber boat that gave him up to the waves of the deep.
For the exploited worker in Qatar, who creates temples of football over his broken back.
For the tramp who forgets to check in to the last remaining sleeping accommodation in Amsterdam, and who dies in the uncaring cold.
For them, a candle burns in the darkness of Christmas Eve.