On The Wire

 O God, take the sun from the sky!
 It's burning me, scorching me up.

God, can't You hear my cry?
 Water! A poor, little cup!
It's laughing, the cursed sun!
 See how it swells and swells
Fierce as a hundred hells!
 God, will it never have done?
It's searing the flesh on my bones;
 It's beating with hammers red
My eyeballs into my head;
 It's parching my very moans.

See! It's the size of the sky,
 And the sky is a torrent of fire,
Foaming on me as I lie
 Here on the wire .
 .
 .
 the wire.
 .
 .
 .


Of the thousands that wheeze and hum
 Heedlessly over my head,
Why can't a bullet come,
 Pierce to my brain instead,
Blacken forever my brain,
 Finish forever my pain?
Here in the hellish glare
 Why must I suffer so?
Is it God doesn't care?
 Is it God doesn't know?
Oh, to be killed outright,
 Clean in the clash of the fight!
That is a golden death,
 That is a boon; but this .
 .
 .

Drawing an anguished breath
 Under a hot abyss,
Under a stooping sky
 Of seething, sulphurous fire,
Scorching me up as I lie
 Here on the wire .
 .
 .
 the wire.
 .
 .
 .


Hasten, O God, Thy night!
 Hide from my eyes the sight
Of the body I stare and see
 Shattered so hideously.

I can't believe that it's mine.

 My body was white and sweet,
Flawless and fair and fine,
 Shapely from head to feet;
Oh no, I can never be
 The thing of horror I see
Under the rifle fire,
 Trussed on the wire .
 .
 .
 the wire.
 .
 .
 .


Of night and of death I dream;
 Night that will bring me peace,
Coolness and starry gleam,
 Stillness and death's release:
Ages and ages have passed, --
 Lo! it is night at last.

Night! but the guns roar out.

 Night! but the hosts attack.

Red and yellow and black
 Geysers of doom upspout.

Silver and green and red
 Star-shells hover and spread.

Yonder off to the right
 Fiercely kindles the fight;
Roaring near and more near,
 Thundering now in my ear;
Close to me, close .
 .
 .
 Oh, hark!
 Someone moans in the dark.

I hear, but I cannot see,
 I hear as the rest retire,
Someone is caught like me,
 Caught on the wire .
 .
 .
 the wire.
 .
 .
 .


Again the shuddering dawn,
 Weird and wicked and wan;
Again, and I've not yet gone.

 The man whom I heard is dead.

Now I can understand:
 A bullet hole in his head,
A pistol gripped in his hand.

 Well, he knew what to do, --
Yes, and now I know too.
 .
 .
 .



Hark the resentful guns!
 Oh , how thankful am I
To think my beloved ones
 Will never know how I die!
I've suffered more than my share;
I'm shattered beyond repair;
I've fought like a man the fight,
And now I demand the right
(God! how his fingers cling!)
To do without shame this thing.

Good! there's a bullet still;
 Now I'm ready to fire;
Blame me, God, if You will,
 Here on the wire .
 .
 .
 the wire.
 .
 .

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