We could be red in colour, if we were still flowing in your word.
Sentence you were murmuring was something ironic, like the fifty-hundred-year-long "his" story.
Different from you declares, there was no end of the friction from our bloody throats, and corpses were dragged on the ground.
Calendars, fading muscles, and chain-replaced tougues.It's what we only had.
But you were jealous of something you've already gotten. Our name would be taken away , our colour as well. Just like the other half of the history and those chinese symbols.
Transparent , well-pronouced, and finally became a flat vocabulary in an ancient dictionary.
That would be the best destiny, when it comes to women, you said.
©swampchen
S