When they arrive, they will say we are red. When they tell our story, we will be blue. In their story about us, we will be the outsiders. They will arrive bearing gifts, these gifts will be poison. Poison that will decay our people, just as it did their people, where they are from. They will exterminate us like pests and call us the savages. We will be a mere obstacle. They will want it all, though there would be enough for all of us. Our home will decrease in size and our people in numbers. From the spirit world, we will watch them transform our home into their own. When they arrive, they will say we are red. When they tell the story of our land, we will be blue. We will greet them with smiles, then blood and tears. Those of us who survive will bow to their will, that will be their only hope. They will have nowhere to run and no way of fighting. Just like the dark people across the sea, we will be given fractions of our own land to rebuild who we were. It will be too late for us. Our blood in the soil will be washed away by theirs, when they fight wars against themselves. Erasing our history, writing their own. When they arrive, they will say we are red. When they tell the story of their crimes, we will be blue. The murderer will tell the victim's story. Our home, our mother, where we belong, will become their slave. They will take everything, leave it barren. Unrecognisable. Renamed. Theirs. They will build temples of evil and call them monuments to us. Our existence will be used by them to steal from each other. Their tribute. Our voice will barely be a whisper, what's left our people will be theirs. Guests in their own home, watching their inheritance get depleted. When they arrive, they will say we are red. When they tell our story, we will be blue. Our final story will be set in a distant place. In our final story, our image will be altered but our markings will remain. Our existence will presented as imagined, not real. Alien. The blue alien fantasies, us, in the final story, will win. They lose. Blue us, led by one of them, keeps our home. They go back to theirs. When blue us have won, the story is over, that's our end. We will be no more. The flame that is us will die. Disappearing forever. When they arrive, they will say we are red. In the final story they tell about us, we will be blue. Extinct, but in their story about us, we win. They will tell stories about us but they will not explain who we are. They won't know. They won't care. Not about us. Not about anything but themselves.
