Is that blood?

Coming out of your eyes,

And your mouth,

And your heart

Where the blade dug in,

A brush at first,

Slowly dug in,

Like a miner,

Finding the prize.


Is that blood,

Gushing out from that wound?

Does it hurt?

Oh of course it does.

The blood gleams crimson,

Like the heart of a fire,

Almost like the devil’s eyes,

It has life,

It breathes.


Is that blood?

On that sword,

That you just pulled out.

It drops down to the ground,

Sand turns to clay,

Red clay,

It smells of metal,

It smells of death,

It smells of war.


Is that blood?

On your wife’s eyes,

Or your son’s

No, that can’t be.

It isn’t red.

They look lost

You were their future,

They were yours.

And now you’re just a picture

A picture on the wall.


The wall that shines,

It is built with the crimson clay

And the not-so red tears,


Your wife’s,

Your son’s,

It shines in the red moon.

The blood moon.

S. Narayanswamy