At nightfall the autumn woods cry out
With deadly weapons, and the golden plains
The deep blue lakes, above which more darkly
Rolls the sun; the night embraces
Dying warriors, the wild lament (5)
Of their broken mouths.
But quietly there in the pastureland
Red clouds in which an angry god resides,
The shed blood gathers, lunar coolness.
All the roads lead to the blackest carrion. (10)
Under golden twigs of the night and stars
The sister’s shade now sways through the silent copse
To greet the ghosts of the heroes, the bleeding heads;
And softly the dark flutes of autumn sound in the reeds.
O prouder grief! You brazen altars, (15)
Today a great pain feeds the hot flame of the spirit,
The grandsons yet unborn.
Before I die I must just find this rhyme.
Be quiet, my friends, and do not waste my time.
We’re marching off in company with death.
I only wish my girl would hold her breath.
There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m glad to leave. (5)
Now mother's crying too. There’s no reprieve.
And now look how the sun's begun to set.
A nice mass-grave is all that I shall get.
Once more the good old sunset's glowing red.
In thirteen days I’ll probably be dead. (10)
Skyrocket burst of hardened steel
A charming light on this fair place
These technicians’ tricks appeal
Mixing with courage a little grace
Two star shells first (5)
In rose pink burst
Two breasts you lay bare with a laugh
Offer their insolent tips
............HERE LIES
ONE WHO COULD LOVE (10)
..................some epitaph
A poet in the forest sees
Indifferent able to cope
His revolver catch at safe
Roses dying of their hope (15)
Thinks of Saadi’s roses then
Bows his head draws down his lip
As a rose reminds him of
The softer curving of a hip
The air is full of a terrible (20)
Liquor from half shut stars distilled
Projectiles stroke the soft nocturnal
Perfume with your image filled
Where the roses all are killed
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries for them from prayers or bells, (5)
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs -
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes (10)
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of silent minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.