Some of it looked black in the jumping torchlight.
It shone.
Slick, like licorice.
Blood washed the stones.
Blood washed the stones.
Blood washed the stones.
Blood washed the stones.
Blood washed the shores.
Always in human life, blood washed the stones in sacrifice. The killing
and the power and the ritual and the brightness, the red brightness of
the blood.
The necessity of blood.
Some of it looked black in the jumping torchlight.
It shone.
Slick, like licorice.