The red lines on his wrists don’t belong to him.
Gun fires! Grenades!
They drink coffee from a cup
between glass doors.

he rubs the red patches away,
             they still leave a slight stain.

“Mothers’! Come out into the streets!”
The little children hold tiny daggers up to heaven
blind, to the stars and oceans.
Lost screams under rail tracks,
their eyes twitch.
“Mothers’! Come out into the streets!”
See the blood of your children run down in streams.

the red patches on his hands fall in love;
                                                  they became contagious.

Standing under a grey sky,
on a ground marked with an X.
He prays.
Comrades become detonators,
when the living start to die off.
He prays.
There are more bullets in the bodies
than in guns.
He still prays.
(Orange is his favourite colour.)
He sees a sunset before the dark invades.