The Green and the Crimson

He was a man in love. A soldier in the game of love. His opponent? His god! It was the last round. He had a green heart. He was a seeker of green lands, green people...as green as heavens! His faith was green, his very soul was green.
But the green of his soul was threatened. He needed to fight, to protect and the price was paid in crimson. For him the crimson was the color of love, crimson as fire, and so was the color of rebellion, and of rage.
But among them all he chose blood. Not the blood that pours out of the defeated body of a fallen soldier, though. He chose the burning blood of a passionate lover. The crimson color of blood that is splashed to heaven among screams and shouts. He chose his own blood. The game was drenched in his blood.
Let him be! Leave him! He cannot be helped! This is his last fight. No armor can help him, or any chainmail or any helmet. No shield, no sword, no spear can come to his aid. Nothing can save him; not even the promise of heaven, or the fear of hell. Go now! Run far away from him. You will be shred to pieces if you stay on his side.
How can one remain when one's flesh is torn? You will not be rewarded. They will take your ripped heart as loot. Who can remain with him with a broken heart?
This is a journey with no end. The opponent, his God, wants his crimson blood splashed on the sun. He wants throats torn and bodies bloodied.
The game, the fight, the struggle; they are never that hard when you are a slave and He the master. When you worship him and He is your god. But when you are the lover and He is your beloved, or when He loves you as you love him, the game is impossible. It's crimson. The crimson game cannot be won but by paying in crimson blood of love.
The man is Hussain ibn Ali, the game is the Battle of Karbala and his beloved is his God, Allah Almighty.