The sun devours the skyline red, for he knows there ain't much time left Fights with anger the blades of the night the dark theater in soaked in the black blood flown from the day. The skinny fingers of its last fire sink their terror as in quicksand as they rise they twist in the ancient dance - their last dance try to grasp the Red Moon, Witness to pain and disease and she joins the trance; dreams to be: winter - flood - heart of this weak planet - hatred of men - an orchid kissed by a little child a stream carries the pilgrims' coffins to the sea its waters reflect but the nightmares, born of light as the dead feed the ground so the river twines to the earth. The river is deep The river is wild The river is cold The river is black The wind talks to the night from the mountains of shadow speaks with voice of dream tells tales of sandstorms like dark tongues of fire
- they claw the dying summer the stones on the mesa shape the wind into laments of ghosts of mothers weeping over their children's bodies, victims of the revenge of their victims' children. The wind is freezing The wind is writing your name in the sand The wind is a hiss The wind is black The desert is witness, book of worn pages - turned by the impatient wind with the smell of timeless sighs look, pilgrim, look -the skeletons' fingers point westward point to the sun/father, the sun/hangman, the defeated sun, the sun exiled look - at the rags protecting their bones from the hunger of the ground look at the empty sockets - mirror yourself into the void throat is dry, dust emptied your body The desert devours the town The desert cannot sleep The desert is on fire The desert is black