Red...
Our cross is red.
Our crescent, red.
The broken flag—
hung from power lines—
is red.
The bullets that passed beside
my brother’s head
They chose red.

Red...
The sky when drones descend,
The soil where mothers end,
The blood that dries before we scream,
The god that watched,
and left the dream.

Red...
My mother’s eyes,
searching for the face of God
as the next beast roars—
she finds red.
Red...
The soldiers stay awake to watch
the fires bloom where children crouch.
They mark the roofs, they count the dead—
then close their eyes
and dream in red.
Red...
The moon above the wreckage
of our sound,
too proud to die quietly—
bleeds red.

Red...
The schools they shelled at dawn’s first light,
The tents that burned all through the night.
The babies swaddled next to flame—
their blankets red, their skin the same.
Red...
The dust that chokes the broken air,
The limbs they count, then leave right there.
The prayers unsaid, the graves unread—
Gaza writes its psalms in red.

Red...
The sky when drones descend,
The soil where mothers end,
The blood that dries before we scream,
The god that watched,
and left the dream.

Anton Atix

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