The singer's voice reverberated, muting the mundane echoes that flourished after his assassination. I grasped the narrow land in my hands, letting the jagged borders tear into my skin. The blood reeked of melancholy, of a history that should have triumphed. In embracing the memory distanced by years and citizenship, the revolutionary song preserved the lonely strings of the guitar. The hues that visited me pertained to the era when a poem written before death paid homage to thousands of hands. Melancholy transformed into resilience; a thousand voices clamouring for their biographies to be scribbled in the sand.