Whose Name is Red?

Not Orhan Pamuk
In the city which smells
An ancient trunk.
But in the streets
Of olden campaigns
Of the Cheras
Of the Zamorins,
Tippu,
The Company,
But now
The red turns
Into brown.

The stained blood
In streets.
The Flag
Retreats
From its rally.

As in fairy tales
Cover the Red
With golden silk.

Throw the word,
Comrade
Out of your throght.
The blood red
Which once
Boiled in thoughts
Sheds in cocktails
For the Apostles
Of wealth.
Orphaned the Red.
But the martyrs cry out
In grave yards.

Che on shirts,
On caps, on panties
Like a cricketer,
Like a brand ambassador.
Yankee's brutal game!

Bolivian School
Sleeps in dead memory.
The raised sickle and hammer
To the grey sky.