The butcher’s daughter, an angel,
For the lamb’s blood feed even angels
And the innocent dandelion.
The indigo sky, like blue water,
Washes away the colors of sunset,
The blood on the killing floor.
Her wide brimmed hat, long hair,
Hide sad eyes; though angel,
She is born of blood and death.
Perhaps a storm comes tonight,
But not a flood to cleanse the world.
The blood in the sky comes every night.
faithlesspaladin 