Unbound and angered, the shadows passed this way on a war path. Hate gnawed once fertile ground to the bone, leaving in its wake a core of sickened and dried waste. No homestead left standing, no man left free, no animal live or plant untouched. So grip the hands of hate.
The sky burns red. Not the red of clay soil or healthy cheeks. Not the red of a rose or even the red of spilled blood. The sky is a red of rust. Of anger and hate and loneliness and pain. The red of forgetfulness, minds and hearts turned to iron and abandoned in the fields to succumb to the salts and water.
A small and brittle stem, its life stained green and its roots reaching deep for moisture. A tiny blue bud is opening its fragile existence in a battlefield, where all other flowers lay crushed and blackened. The bud’s petals, suddenly so special, so delicate – to be saved and protected at all costs – flutter in the low breeze that blows through the land, a herald of the oncoming storm. The bud’s slender stem trembles as the earth prepares for renewal, its roots stretching for the rains that will come. Water that will come and wash away the hateful memories. The bud opens its trembling petals to the grey sky, and it rains.