There.
White clay and red bones. Or is it red bones and white clay? Don't know. It is far away now. Bones are mashed And pots are made. May be some of the flesh Boiling there. Sun is going down And predators are coming back. Shallow seas are rising up Full moons are shining bright. May be, Just may be, There is another tomorrow. Heavens shine And stars blink. Paths send out a reddish hue. Marcopias are crying loud May be, Just may be, They are not inviting death again.