The soldier saw

reddish-orange blood pouring out

of his enemy’s chest

as he thrust his glossy sword

deep inside.

Reddish-orange, the color of the setting sun,

he thought, pointless.

For the first time, he looked into his

enemy’s face. Was he 17 or 18?

His hands numbed and bones quivered as he

imagined his youngest brother

soaked in reddish-orange blood.

Another enemy lay beside the young one,

like crushed leaves,

his dark crimson blood reminiscent

of the sky before a storm.

What is the color of my blood?

he wondered. What did he fight for?

Expansion? Race? Religion?

A vulture sat in the stench of blood,

her mouth purplish-red,

jaw dripping,

observing and waiting.

Suddenly, scared of all the red around him,

the soldier dragged himself out

of the battlefield.

His helmet and sword slipped away

in search of a better warrior.

His legs strolled where his heart led and

he stopped in front of a monastery.

He knelt with force

as the monastery bells rang,

his knees brushing

the hard rock below.

He found that his blood

was reddish-yellow

like a scattered autumn leaf.

He lifted his eyes

as the sun broke through the trees

illuminating his path to peace.