LOST CLOTHES

My mantle is red; I am the son of wars, and all I see is my paralyzed remains. I do not remember anything about white clothes, because the brides of our city were killed before weddings, and the face of our land was smashed by an unknown. Now, we are without love and we know nothing about moon tales. We are always looking for our short and lost dresses in this white and wide world. Here, we cannot see our hands when they disappear in the mouth of war, and we cannot hear our voices when they sink into their absent ocean.