Red. The color of my enemy. But it's my color too. The color of passion, fire, and heroes. The color of my passion for him, I guess.
I'm supposed to hate him. I'm supposed to say things like "Better dead than red!" But I can't. I can't bring myself to call the one I love something so mean.
I can see how much it hurts him, those slogans and protests. He's quiet in the meetings now and lets the world call him names. He's so strong though. It's just like when he was under Tartar control. He'll be strong and come out of it a better nation, a better person.
But what he's like now is a lot different than what he was before 1917. He just snapped that day when they overthrew his tsar. Who wouldn't? He was there, you know, when they killed his King. He watched as they shot the little girls and the boy. He told me one night, how he held the famous Anastasia. He had always liked her. He told me how her blood stained his coat red.
Red. The color of war, of blood, of love. The color of Russia. The color of me and my love for Russia.
Yeah, it's America. Yeah, it's America/ Russia. Yeah, it's short.