The blood on the streets mingles with the dust
Turning it a brown red, the colour of rust
Broken pained bodies litter the ground
Surrounded with weeping relatives, confused children all around
The survivors live, with empty eyes and emptier souls
Never forgetting the massacre, never again whole
During sleep, with the images burned into the back of their eyes
In their dreams, all that is seen is red, even the bright blue skies
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