Dying-sounds of metal;
And a white animal breaks down.
The rough songs of brown girls
Have blown away in the falling leaves.
The forehead dreams God’s colors,
Feels the soft wings of insanity.
Shadows rotate on the hill
Fringed blackly by rot.
Dusk full of rest and wine;
Sad guitars trickle.
And as if in a dream
You turn to the calm lamp within.