The Red

I see the red in the twilight of the morn:

My heart pickles hopes from the coming of the day.

I see the red in dying of the glowing sun:

I gather sorrows and stillness into silence.

I see the red in the blooming of roses:

I filled my eyes with the joy of the lover's heart.

I see the red in the four colours of flame:

I feel the fire that burns and smashes to dashes.

I see the red in the flag of a revolutionary:

I lament the fervours that ever change themselves.

I see the red in the body of the youth:

I imagine the passions that filled his heart.

I see the red in the paintings of a creator:

I cherish the meanings that brush stretches.

I see the red in spiling of the blood:

I curse the humans for becoming ruthless.

And yet I see the red, and I see the red:

And I hope no more and I gather no more.

And yet I see the red, and I see the red:

And I joy no more, and I sorrow no more.

You know I see the red, but I see no more.

No more.