In a strange country

I’ve been here before, 
long ago,
or seen it in a picture:
the red mountain ranges, 
fields watered with blood, 
trees withered and dying 
and the crimson creeks.

Overhead are carrion-eaters, 
circling, circling.

The sky flows with red clouds 
going away — 
not to stay,
but only to rain
on other countries 
before returning home.

Someone is crying somewhere, 
or is bleeding.

There’s no escape from here, 
I know that for sure:
the more you row
the further you go
away from the shore
you’re making for;
and the red land draws closer.

Soon it will invade your heart 
and make you a blood-sucker.

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