It is some kind of giant house –
in Mexico, I guess.
In hills, a purple sun hangs low.
We all wear battle dress.
I bear a weapon in my hand.
We seek some evil man.
The air, it reeks of burning wood
and peaches from a can
I'm walking down long corridors.
I'm searching for my team.
A slowly ticking clock goes *snap*
I woke up from the dream.
– three quatrains in ballad meter.