War Is A Fevered God Who Takes

O Happy, Happy Each Man Whom Predestined Fate Leads To The Holy Rite Of Hill And Mountain Worship.

Lovers May Come And Go, There Was The Memory Of Blood, The Low Call.

The Stallion And His Mare, Unbridled, With Arrow-pattern, Are Worked On. The Blue Cloth Before The Door Of Religion And Inspiration.

There Must Be Real Gods See, The Painted Gods How Fair!

We Are Voyagers, Discoverers Of The Not-known, The Unrecorded; We Have No Map; Possibly We Will Reach Haven, Heaven.