The old priest considered the cast-iron oil pot sitting in the corner of the immaculate kitchen. It was heavy, and his back hurt.
The trees growing on the canyon walls whispered to him. "Prepare
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I am in love with yellow
bright sunshine that beams on my face
I am a mere speck of dust
in its long and glorious life
I am in love with red
the blisters remind me of my sun
my arms turn red and blister from the sun
but I still love the strangeness of its rays
I am in love with blue
the passing of my beautiful sun
dying and gasping as it passes below the horizon
the red disappears and I am healed
bright sunshine that beams on my face
I am a mere speck of dust
in its long and glorious life
I am in love with red
the blisters remind me of my sun
my arms turn red and blister from the sun
but I still love the strangeness of its rays
I am in love with blue
the passing of my beautiful sun
dying and gasping as it passes below the horizon
the red disappears and I am healed
