There’s a hole in the skull for the sunlight to fall from the visage of God to a place in the sod, blood flows.
Well I’m lying in bed with a hole in my head, but the vessel is filled pharmaceutically chilled exposed to the sun.
"New PreColumbian Dream." That’s all we’ve been told.
I’ve been dreaming of gold, of the bounties untold, like a mystical savage lusting mythical ravage by crows.
While your glory is fading they’ve been patiently waiting for the era to die and their future arrive or so we’ve been sold.
"New PreColumbian Dream." That’s all that we know.