A field of peonies,

Blossom across the floor,

The liquid of life,

So vital and yet so abundant,

It continues to pour across the ground,

Forming intricate puddles,

As the man looks to the sky,

Eternally studying the stars,

For he cannot close his eyes,

Because his blood paints the floor,

A murderous red,

And even when looking to the stars,

All he can see,

Is death.