Red are my cheeks, my lips.
Constantly smiling, for my brother doesn't.

Red is the stone, sitting on the window sill.
It's so pretty… But where did it come from? I'll give it to brother.

Red is the fire, spreading towards the village.
It's burning the house and everything in it. What have I done? I'm so scared.

Red are my eyes, my mother's and my brother's.
My eyes cannot see anymore. I have been taken away. They said they can cure me.

Red are my wrists, sore from my shackles.
I have been restrained. I want to leave. I want to see my brother.

Red is his face, cut and bruised.
His chest does not rise and fall. His eyes are lidded.

Red is my throat, hoarse and dry.
Hoarse from cries to encourage those who live. Dry from my cries for those who don't. Moisture from my throat has all gone to my eyes. How much longer will I cry?

Red are my hands, my dirty hands.
How much of this blood is mine? Whom else do these stains come from?

Red is my mouth, gasping for air.
I struggle to breathe while I choke on my own blood. This taste I am all too familiar with. The beatings and bullets are finally catching up with me.

Red are my eyes, my mother's and my brother's.
They meet for the first time in years. We're together at last.

The beginning, the end and everything in between is...

Red.