Red Cloth

O here comes a cloth of pure red,

trudging  into world and to be held

by some hand and thrust a reason

for its role in this age-old grand plan.

Will it be symbol of super human

who descends from a forlorn planet,

to defend the people from enemy's gun

yet too meek to show his true potent.

If the soiled hands of toiler holds

the red would turn into wet cloth

withers by sweat from morbid vows,

lost in work forever with no air of mirth.

Would it be a symbol of twisted thinkers

that pledge to sacrifice self for greater good

and convert men into mere statistics

obviating freedom of one's thought and deed.

O cloth of serene sun! fly father away

where children laugh with innocence and joy

while men toil in present and not for unseen future

there you flutter like a dove dancing to its own tune.

O red cloth! exist as you will to

with fervor and unbridled gusto,

 a unmatched symbol of man that stands alone

on his own mountain far from worldly care.