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