Requiem to Yellow Ribbons.

Draw curves in soft, cold air and you will feel a hope to see the future sooner after your wave started to make things form a portrait of what comes next. As you move your arms with a finger pointed, ribbons of yellows join the slanting breeze that blows to the west and added the grass that went vibrantly green as you open and close your eyes. By and by, you have absorbed the melancholic mood that seemed to bollix your focus and consciousness of the surrounding haven. Everything has changed as the sky suspectingly felt your response on the flying yellow ribbons.

What you have seen won’t occur unless you visit the resplendent heaven and hear the sullen string of violins that signals your life beyond your past. Does it mean death? Yes. Does it mean that you’re dead? No. Do you feel the austere breeze and do you see the ribbons? Yes. Oh Cory has died.

As people release ribbons of symbolic occurence and of an iconic person who has replaced blood with life, you could hear the bells that ring and the angel’s song and strings that vibrate for the death of the one who once united the Militaries and the Mass. You hear the requiem because it is in a calling to people who recognize the first woman president’s insurmountable courage and breathless hail of hope. Does it mean that her death symbolizes the fading of peace? No. Her death means reflecting on the motherland’s seemingly unending search of truth.

Her death must be unforgettable because her heart is with us. A big part of the Mass had been evoked to turn their backs from the chaos. The breeze’ constant blow of the ribbons calls everyone to notice the past and never leave it because the future wouldn’t be predicted and it’s your only way of providing the rope that you would cling for the odds meet their ends.

Sadness would’t fail to open your eyes for truth,




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