It's the blood, the vultures smell it
We lick our wounds for nourishment
Our carcasses not yet still
Tremble in anticipation
The stones upon which we lie
No longer fly in torment
We turn away as not to view
Open wounds among us
Lustful laughter lifts our listless lives
Where tears could not arouse them
Darkness in the blazing light
And soon the circling ceases.