Ephemeral Winds.

Ribbons burst out, swirling around like snakes in a whirlpool. They fly into the air, golden in hue, twisting and whirling as if their lives depend on it. As if they had lives. What is the so-called "spark of life"? Explosions. The ribbons fly every-which-way. Tearing to shreds. The little clockwork soldiers come to life. Slowly, deliberately, they march. And march. The wind with the ribbons twist them into faint images that are unknown to this world. The cherry blossoms fall like snow from the ethereal trees. The wind. It whips them around in vortexes of pink and gold. The tears of the goddesses fall like crystals, shimmering and shining in hues of blues. Splash, splash. The rhythm of the ribbons cause the tears to fly. Upside down. Goodbye for the last time, they called to me. Up, up, back up, they flew. The ribbons repaired themselves. The cherry blossoms cried tears of crimson. They, too, flew up. Merging with the clouds. Cried, the clouds did. Tears of red and blue. Ribbons of gold. Ephemeral colours. Crash. Crash goes the glass. Fragments. Boom. The glass goes flying. Shredding the cherry blossoms. They cry. Tears of crimson. Tick-tock go the clockwork soldiers. But they aren't really clockwork. They aren't really anything. Simply images formed by the ribbons. Goodbye for the last time, they called to me. Implosions. I want it. Crash. Bang. The ribbons are drawn taut. They snap. Splinters of gold. In the air, merging with the tears. The tears of blue and red. Splinters of gold. Ephemeral colours. Tick tock. Boom. Crash. The glass shatters. Into fragments. Every-which-way. Then the darkness comes. Covering everything in a shroud. No more are the ribbons. The clouds are gone as well. Vanished. No more are the colours. The tears of blue and red. Splinters of gold. Ephemeral colours. No more. No more. They all vanish. The ethereal trees. Wither. Down, the tears fall. Tears of blue and red. Ephemeral colours. Darkness. No more. Nothing moves. All is quiet.

Sunlight. Piercing the veil like a knife. Shimmering sunbeams. The clockwork soldiers fight the darkness. Fight. Boom. Crash. Showers of red. And tears of blue. Ephemeral colours. The sunbeams repair the ribbons. Golden ribbons. Shimmering. Flashing. Scintillating. They glow with the power of a hundred stars. Golden stars. The goddesses dry their tears. Crystal tears. Tears of blue. The swirling cherry blossoms halt their waltz of sorrow. No more fear. No more tears. Tears of crimson. The clouds materialize. Extracted from the heart of the clouds is the pure essence of life. Life. Life given to the clockwork soldiers. They aren't really clockwork. They aren't really soldiers at all. They are human. Just like you and me.