Beige Flag

Somewhere, the broadcasts stay gentle.
The screens glow with tidy mornings,
markets opening, traffic flowing,
sunlight sliding across quiet towers.

The air feels calm there.
No breaking alarms,
no maps with arrows and smoke.

And that calm is a kindness.
Hearts rest easier
when the world outside the window
looks steady and whole.

That is the green in the beige.

But the world is large,
and sometimes distant thunder
travels farther than the headlines.

People hear whispers in the wind—
conversations, fragments,
echoes from places beyond the horizon.

Not to invite fear,
not to stir panic in the streets,
only because people who live somewhere
also live in its story.

They look up from the quiet page
and wonder what clouds
might be passing overhead
that they cannot quite see.

That is the red in the beige.

So the sky stays pale and polished,
never fully dark,
never fully clear—
just a quiet shade between comfort and concealment.