lørdag 22. september 2012

Teh man who sang that pain was sweet shuddered to see the mask of death storm by with myriad thundering feet; The sudden truth caught up our breath, our throats throats like pulses beat.


The songs of pals emaciate hours,
The fungus-growth of years of peace,
Withered before us like mown flowers;
We found no pleasure more in these
When bullets fell in showers.


Ingen kommentarer:

Legg inn en kommentar