| Indians scattered on dawn’s highway bleeding.
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| Ghosts crowd the young child’s fragile egg-shell mind
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| Blood in the streets
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| In the town of New Haven.
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| Blood stains the roofs
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| And the palm trees of Venice.
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| Blood in my love
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| In the terrible summer.
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| Bloody red sun of Phantastic L.A.
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| Blood screams her brain
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| As they chop off her fingers.
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| Blood will be born
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| In the birth of a nation.
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| Blood is the rose of Mysterious union.
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| Blood on the rise,
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| It’s following me.
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| Indian, Indian
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| What did you die for?
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| Indian says nothing at all.
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| Gently they stir.
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| Gently rise.
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| The dead are new-born awakening.
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| With ravaged limbs
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| And wet souls.
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| Gently they sigh
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| In rapt funeral amazement.
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| Who called these dead to dance?
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| Was it the young woman
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| Learning to play the «Ghost Song»
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| In her baby grand
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| Was it the wilderness children?
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| Was it the Ghost-God himself,
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| Stuttering, cheering,
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| Chatting blindly?
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| I called you up to Annoint the earth.
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| I called you to announce
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| Sadness falling like
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| Burned skin.
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| I called you to wish you well
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| To glory in self like a new monster
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| And now I call on you to pray. |