Light is sour blood spilled from pregnant skies.
Frothing and turning, ignoring dead wings as they drift by.
It reveals blood and rust from twisted faces.

Long shadows are the devil and death the cold breeze.
Caughing and choking in the fading night, I smiled...
The fruit of labour grew in the fertile world.

Only to fall and decay among the wings that are curled.
Light is blood spilled above the five-pointed stars.

Surrounded by the dark eye in this forgotten time, I lied!
The fruit of labour bloomed in a scorched world.

And now... from darkness there springs light!

See also:
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