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.