Red
They say every sunrise comes again
and the mandarin blossoms of the Azalea never leave for long
But in the marsian haze of this sandstorm, blowing through empty fingers
all I seem to see are the red shadows of a love long buried
and the echoes of a laugh made distant by the dunes
and I scream it now, loud as the blood in my temples
but it is a lifetime late, and all that answers
is a single strand of mango hair
curling past me through the wind
the same wind that whispers her name, again and again
and again
...and again
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