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Conscious

 His fingers wake, and flutter up the bed.
His eyes come open with a pull of will, Helped by the yellow may-flowers by his head.
A blind-cord drawls across the window-sill .
.
.
How smooth the floor of the ward is! what a rug! And who's that talking, somewhere out of sight? Why are they laughing? What's inside that jug? "Nurse! Doctor!" "Yes; all right, all right.
" But sudden dusk bewilders all the air -- There seems no time to want a drink of water.
Nurse looks so far away.
And everywhere Music and roses burnt through crimson slaughter.
Cold; cold; he's cold; and yet so hot: And there's no light to see the voices by -- No time to dream, and ask -- he knows not what.

Poem by Wilfred Owen
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