Interpret:

Doors, The

Album:

An American Prayer

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.