RED IS THE COLOUR OF RUST AND BLOOD

Under a blazing sun, the tanks advanced in formation.
Pennons flapping in the hot breeze, as they raced through the valley.
Slogans of hate were painted on the tanks’ sides and on each man’s heart.
Suddenly, a roar came out of the distant hills
And caused the warriors to blush in fear.
That deafening noise was the echoes of crying,
That had come from the families of those who had lost loved ones
 To the brave shells of the tanks.
And then, a salty rain fell and soaked through the steel of the turrets.
That bitter rain was the tears
Of those who had been killed by the tanks’ servile bullets.
When morning came, all that was left was twelve piles of rust, which were being blown away by a fierce wind.
That wind was the dying screams
of those whose limbs had been torn apart by the
well-greased tracks of the tanks.