The hills are growing blood and gold;
a rust is rippling through the grass;
a flame now flickers through the fields
and covers where the carefree pass.
I dreamed of dancing with the dead.
Their steps were signs on every way.
A blanket billowed where they bled
like dooming dawn on judgment day.
The painter's pot adorns their place,
where blood and brilliance blanket all,
and finds no rival canvas raised
till fiery leaves in autumn fall.