Red

Now he knows his hands are tied, 
once a man with a voice
now folded into his own silence.

He turns his face to heaven;
but the red sun rising cannot speak
to his blindfolded eyes, 
nothing perceived  
but the grasp of enclosing walls
and the taste of blood on his tongue. 
 
Barely two years before 
his hands reached to move mountains,
his voice pouring into the barren silence 
of this doomed land, 
his words unmuting minds,   
and it seemed the sun was something golden.
He did not know then,
that in a doomed land 
The sun is always red,
and words and hands are held at gunpoint, 
tied up by a squad of men 
tied to tiny faith and false gods 

But now, as a red sun
climbs enclosing walls; 
now, as gunshot breaks the silence 
and a downpour of bullets
bleeds him red;
now,
he knows.