They neigh for drink.
The river they drink from is red.
The Devil spins the bullets hot upon their errand,
And they whine to be cooled in flesh.
The fierce shells sob for joy of their deliverance
And the eager shrapnel scream with the ecstasy
That their waiting is ended ;
They are released for their feeding.
Men buzz forward in black streams, like flies about a
a shambles. They stumble ; toss their arms and fall aimlessly about,
forgetting the world. The automatons, afar off, turning the cranks of the
machine-guns. See not the flies they destroy. Those who stumble into
the ditch of eternity see not who slew them.
TRUTH: The young men winnowed and carefully selected.
POET: As grain, heavy with ripeness, is beaten down by hail. So the fields of young men are beaten down and the Future is made barren.
TRUTH: There is no folly without fools.
POET: It is the Devil's playground.
I see his distorted legions hopping gleefully about ; They snatch at the breath of the dying And weave it into a blue and shuddering mist. They dance above the bloody chaos. They tear out arms and legs and twist them about ; Laughing at the shrieks of the tortured. They fiddle a mad dance upon the exquisite nerves. And make a chorus of the screams of agony.
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