Song to the Lost Ones
Soft thy feet on the floor of the desert, In the night — Running — Desperate and breathless.
Blood on the sands of the desert drying, Drops of blood on the hot sand drying, Blood from the veins of my beloved Pouring out on the desert.
Soft in the night the rustle of corn leaves Young men into the cities pouring, Blood from the veins of young men pouring into the cities.
Sherwood Anderson