Light is sour blood spilled from pregnant skies.
Frothing & turning, ignoring dead wings as they drift by.
It reveals blood & rust from twisted faces.
Long shadows are the devil & death the cold breeze.
Coughing & choking in the fading night, I smiled...
The fruit of labour grew in the fertile world.
Only to fall and decay among the wings that are curled.
Light is blood spilled above the five-pointed stars.
Surrounded by the dark eye in this forgotten time, I lied!
The fruit of labour bloomed in a scorched world.
And now ... From darkness there springs light!
