What is Red? It surrounds us and it’s in us. With the power of torrents, of colossal rivers flowing, it torments as it engulfs. Spreading the spears of armies across fields yet unsown. Its colourless dreams filled in with brazen brushstrokes of brutish beasts. Its the deafening silence separating. Its Love and it’s Hate. It’s the rush and the wealth of Power. Its the rust collecting on metal where Man sits on vacant silence, holding the limp body of a newborn; in His arms cradled singing a song of 100 years. Its the pulse and the static that vibrates. Its the story of creeds, Of Men of wars. Its the colour of my jacket, and its the colour of our hands, dripping.

I look and the floors soak it in. The rubble reeks of it. I see it when walking the hallways of torn cities, in ghost walls. I see it in the teddy bear strewn in a puddle on the ground. I see it in bullet casings still hot with the hatred of tarnished hearts. And in peoples eyes around me, stained and bloodshot with embers from sleepless days. And as the skies fall, rather than night, hues of Red replaces all. Sirens bellowing the cries of these tired Men. Lost Men. Machine Men. It’s the miracle of repeated, quantised history echoing to us from the past again, falling on familiar deaf ears.

And yet, somehow, when walking you see it in the smile of a child. You feel it in the warmth of the embrace of strangers. Its in the fruit, given, its in the petal of a flower growing sideways in gravel. Its in the blankets where we sleep together in Prayer. It’s in the morning song of birds, flying in the Sky. Its in the collective Matriarchal heart beating for Her children. As you look around, as you look in the eyes, its hard to hear Her beat above the chantings of the songs of war. But its there, and it’s all we have.

So here, on this desert flatland, where one day bloody blades of grass will grow, ye shall sew your Childrens dreams, stained with the tears of past. Words will be writ, and Men will fall, but birds will still sing their morning song and the winds will whisper, petals will turn to flowers and when you look down, you’ll see the colour of Red: In your hands and on your feet, underneath in the river made from the sand of bones. And you will look up, with hollow heart and heavy foot and you’ll continue to be colourblind, wishing for fields of Green.