Indians scattered on dawn's highway bleeding
Ghosts crowd the young child's fragile eggshell mind.

Blood in the streets in the town of new haven
Blood stains the roofs and the palm trees of venice
Blood in my love in the terrible summer
Bloody red sun of phantastic L.A.

Blood screams her brain as they chop off her fingers
Blood will be born in the birth if a nation
Blood is the rose of mysterious union
Blood on the rise, it's following me.

Indian, indian what did you die for?
Indian says, nothing at all.

Gently they stir, gently rise
The dead are newborn awakening
With ravaged limbs and wet souls
Gently they sigh in rapt funeral amazement
Who called these dead to dance?
Was it the young woman learning to play the ghost song on her baby grand?
Was it the wilderness children?
Was it the ghost god himself, stuttering, cheering, chatting blindly?
I called you up to anoint the earth
I called you to announce sadness falling like burned skin
I called you to wish you well
To glory in self like a new monster
And now I call you to pray

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