In Days Of Blood

Buried by the wind, a yellow house
Gains acceptance in the eyes of God;
Underneath the realms of fantasy,
Lies a world of tragic blood and torture,
We speak of crafts they conceive,
We see rivers of fire in our house,
The destroyed ones are buried by those winds.
Very crude animals taste the fortune of colours
That entwine the engines of sound.
A broken twig mutters its anger
As you wake up in a hundred days.