So easy for us. And morning is a pastel...

So easy for us. And morning is a pastel.
And another sound, deep and guttural,
live songs dead at dawn
fallen in the grass between two deserts.

Still with us, those who saw it. They
hurt, salt and warm like blood.
Sweet escape and clear Travin
for them — as the day of his return from the war.

Shout from sleep morning time:
they have the trains and camps
and sharp steps of the murderers in the darkness down the street.

We are close. Us the nature of the sign will give:
feeling the thrill of pulses and wrists,
like children, the mind came in their hand.