Flames are coming from the ascending stairs
where the birds fly at the time of the hunt, and the dogs run hungry
in the blue alleyways.
The singers serve as a choir in battle colonies, in dances with swords and
spears of ice, to advance the hour of judgment, the dark forecast of the rain of
wounds and protruding daggers.
Until only one hero remains covered in violet red, before or after
to invoke the very vanishing of death.
