And the red sky drifts
down a winding road
as the evening shifts
in an endless snow.
Beneath fiery red
there’s a big black gate,
in a town that’s dead,
at the end of the straight.
Upon entrance here,
in the center square,
there’s a sense of fear;
there’s a well that’s bare.
And the well goes deep.
With a look below —
and its sides are steep —
there’s a faint white glow.
To the faint white glow,
for this town that’s dead,
all the pain does flow
as the well runs red.