The flag of death

I live

in the red city.

Flesh red.

Blood red.

A river

runs through

the city.

A river of red,

like the flag

of death.

They say

it wasn’t

like that

before.

They say

it turned red

when they threw

the bodies

into the water.

They had to

cut them first

because they had

stones inside

the veins.

The blood

of the dead

stagnates

like a swamp

in which

lonely people

throw stones.

Your red lips

turned pale

before the flag

of death.

You had seen it

before,

but not up close.

Up close

it whispers

its secret.