Blood Cotton

Blood Cotton
Evening, around six o'clock.
I step out onto the balcony, and there cotton, reddened, spreading wide. I caught my breath.
Cotton, scattered across the sky.
I think it must have drunk in the sun's blood.
The sun's blood isn't damp, somehow.
Right now, if blood were to drip from that cotton, what color would it be I try to imagine.
But it stays dry, no matter how long. No blood runs through the cotton, after all. No blood runs through the cotton.
Even though it looks just like blood vessels.
The blood cotton, not even knowing who is who, in this hour of dusk.
In the sky, I see myself, scattering the cotton.
The sun's blood clings to it, dried on.
This is only for today. Today is only today.
The blood cotton spreads out like a reaching hand, but the one blood actually runs through is me.
Your hands are covered in blood, dried.
The sun's blood isn't damp, somehow.
Right now, if blood were to drip from that cotton, what color would it be I try to imagine.
But it stays dry, no matter how long. No blood runs through the cotton, after all. No blood runs through the cotton.
Even though it looks just like blood vessels.
The blood cotton, not even knowing who is who, in this hour of dusk.
A sight you can only see for ten minutes out of the whole day I watch it, and there's nothing I can quite say.
Ten minutes, and the cotton dyed red stays dry.
In this hour of dusk, someone was bathed in the sun's blood. In this hour of dusk too, someone was bathed in the sun's blood.
The cotton. Me, too. We were both bathed in the sun's blood. That's all it is.