We all bleed the same.

We bleed again and again,

No matter the cause, however in vain,

No matter the price, no matter the blame.

It runs crimson when kissed with oxygen's lips,

A love letter opened, tempted with death,

Brothers to prize or brothers despised,

The look in their eyes which light has left.

It runs through these veins, these paths of ruin,

In mothers beloved and mothers too soon,

And in sons of the gutter and sons of the crown,

In cities of grandeur or your little town.

The blush of the child so plain and so bold,

The price of a crime that never grows old,

In fathers who fled and fathers who toiled,

By warmth of love which favours the spoiled.

Our sisters, our daughters, ancient or fresh,

The ones who we cherish more than the rest,

Scarlet with fever or emblazoned tattoo,

For roses are painted in just such a hue.

Contrary to this, with words or with fear,

The surge of blood which pulses the ear,

Is shed and torn from young, from old,

But held so closely as our own.