...As I walk through the waste
The forest looks burdened as the leaves fall to the ground...
The fresh smell of death comes in with the east wind. A small token of the massacre of feathers...

As they lured the unwitting into the pitfalls of kindness, only to betray and destroy...The blood runs red.

Red like the color of the autumn air, a small gesture as its painted across the white clounds as they overtake and dominate.

The seasons turn and death is overtaken by the pure snow...faithless I walked through the valley and cold is the shadow of death. I cry as the turkey fell...the last mind of precivilization...as the Indians innocently offered kind gesture to their executioner...