Only men’s blood could be red, 
they said, containing enough strength 
and power to fight. According 
to them, mine was colored fuchsia.

Tattered, roseate dresses and pale

skin blossomed from the ground,
just flowers compared to the tall,
wavering trees that were men.
 
Soon, a battlefield dusted with azaleas
came about; the sky was tinged
violet and peach, precisely crested
with thousands of constellations.
 
As sunlight severed the stars
the next morning, the earth wept
with its grassy fields painted pink,
and an entire forest of pine trees.
 
Lifelessly embedded in the dirt, its 
frail, torn roots were violently slashed
and bloodstained as flower petals 
toppled over its wooden remains.