I live in a field of black grass
With black roses on black rosebushes
Sending out sweet smells of rotting corpses.
A black sky covers my head
And black clouds dot it;
A black sun sends out black light,
Bathing the field in black softness -
A black softness as soft as granite.
I run in this field,
An obsidian figure in a black field.
And nothing do I desire but a speck of color.