The blood in fingers is so thick,
It dulls their movement,
Sludging through veins as buried molasses,
One could choose to say.

But so sweetly,
They sing,
The workers who walk,
On this night in May.

Cold wind to the chins,
Hot air from the mouths,
Faceless polymorphs,
Mere ants in the way.

Who would decide to live,
When clouds dim the sky,
And dirty rain blotches out the remaining god,
Who will hear you pray?