There are seven you know.
Seven hues,
Bright with meaning.
Grey and red,
Colors of grief,
Mourning and remembrance both.
A cry and an exaltation.
Black and gold,
Colors of truth.
A blade in hand,
Seeking justice and vengeance.
Green and blue,
Colors of ethic,
Steadfast in one’s work
Mind on responsibility and consistency.
And then there is orange,
Shereshoy, you call it
You Mando’ad
Reveling in life on death’s edge.
There are seven you know
Yet none fit
And so you pick your own
A hue for you and you alone.
You pick white.
Stark, harsh white
Clear, visible, no means to hide
Nor intent.
White of ivory,
Of the gleam of Mando iron,
The white of bones,
Old, picked clean
Reminder of life
White so bright, brilliant
Burning eyes of the dying
Leading them back home
Back to the Manda
Skills in hand.
You pick white.
White for death,
Of death.
You are white.
White for death,
Of death.
Ja’haili, ner Buir.
Ja’haili ner oya’kare.
Kar’tayli ni ijaati gar bajur.
