[G] Crimson

Ephraim quietly and gingerly wrote a partition in the sand, smoothly, undisturbed. Without looking away, he picked up his pan flute and whistled a sad, mournful melody, his body swaying gently to the rhythm.

I knew this song, and I knew Ephraim did, too. I glanced up from the camp fire to search for Ephraim's eyes, but they refused to meet mine. He didn't write the song down so he wouldn't forget, but rather so he wouldn't lose track of it. I think he felt that if he looked into my eyes, he would dive in too deep and drown, and he would not remember to play, but instead would try to stay afloat in the pools of blood red and remember the painting we saw, the now silent village left crimson in the wake of a storm of blades, rage and violence.

I lied down and gazed through the flickering fire at the sunset horizon, tinted red and orange as if set ablaze by the crackling flames. I held the envelope that failed to reach its now ghost destination to a lick of flame and watched it disintegrate into thousands of embers, like freed souls escaping inferno and ascending into stars in the dark curtain of the night sky.

I then understood that the song was a tribute. I closed my eyes and I felt his, blue and clear, soothing the burning red of mine.