Woorden: The Doors. Down's Highway.

Indians scattered on dawn's highway bleeding

Ghosts crowd the young child's fragile eggshell mind.


Me and my -ah- mother and father - and a

grandmother and a grandfather - were driving through

the desert, at dawn, and a truck load of Indian

workers had either hit another car, or just - I don't

know what happened - but there were Indians scattered

all over the highway, bleeding to death.


So the car pulls up and stops. That was the first time

I tasted fear. I musta' been about four - like a child is

like a flower, his head is just floating in the

breeze, man.

The reaction I get now thinking about it, looking

back - is that the souls of the ghosts of those dead

Indians...maybe one or two of 'em...were just

running around freaking out, and just leaped into my

soul. And they're still in there.


Indians scattered on dawn's highway bleeding

Ghosts crowd the young child's fragile eggshell mind.


Blood in the streets in the town of New Haven

Blood stains the roofs and the palm trees of Venice

Blood in my love in the terrible summer

Bloody red sun of Phantastic L.A.


Blood screams her brain as they chop off her fingers

Blood will be born in the birth if a nation

Blood is the rose of mysterious union

Blood on the rise, it's following me.


Indian, Indian what did you die for?

Indian says, nothing at all.