Sweat becomes mud in the dust of a dead land.
Perhaps drops of death s colorful agents released by white hats to kill black pajamas. Green becomes brown in the land of moon festivals and sweat becomes blood 'neath the monsoon of metals. With bamboo to maim, not kill. They know we go home. Shivers of cold fear in hot humid jungles where the snap of a twig sends senses unfettered into realms of resources unknown and untested.