One who could carve oceans from rain. So one day I awoke and my hands were red. My armies swooped in and killed the poet, Killed the baker of bread, the purveyor of truth. The rain Came down all the time. Much of this has been told.
History is their story, the story all schoolchildren are told.
All those long nights even the moon was red. Years later I tried to speak of it. How the forces Of nature could not even rule, no poet Could write about them. The rain Like terror, wet everyone - bt my story was not to be told. The flag that waved was red, The streets were empty and littered with papers.