I am mournful. My precious whole has been dissected for the Earth to observe. Inhabitants crowd to see humiliation in its pieces, but find total chaos instead, originating from the pieces themselves. They have flung themselves apart, and those that try to repair fail seamlessly against their aggressive comrades. Some parts lash out with a red-white combination of whippage; the star pieces quietly take the violence. This action does not rip the stars into more bits, but rather taints the beauty that beheld them before the procedure, something that was so cherished in the eyes of the whole years prior. My home is a battlefield of red versus white. No side is prepared to yield, and it seems as if the stars will continue to take their reprieve from shining for four years longer. Though my sadness dwells upon my nationality, I am forced to believe that there is hope for the pieces to find a way to weave themselves together, even if disorderly, to mend the chaos the inhabitants of this Earth crowd to see. I am mournful, but I am hopeful in the ancient whole to drive the strayed back to our original home.