There's blood on my hands.
Dripping like tears from the tips of my fingers,
Crying out to the ground for redemption.
Great Mother listen to its call.
Fill the world with cries so deafening that they can only be carried on the wind.
Let it seep into the ground I walk,
To mark each step as the next to my last.
Keep a record of my sins.
For I am no more than the dust blown away by the crying wind.
Scattered and spread thin.
Cursed by the blood I spilled.