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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

Fierce as a hundred hells!    God, will it never have done?

It's searing the flesh on my bones;    It's beating with hammers

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

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

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

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. . . .

From

ES OF A

ED

SS

AN, edited by Robert W.

Service, published by Barse & Hopkins,

New York,

US, 1916, pp. 74-77.

The header graphic is of a Russian soldier dead on the wire in World War 1.

Charley Noble

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Robert W Service

Robert William Service (January 16, 1874 – September 11, 1958) was a British-Canadian poet and writer, often called "the Bard of the Yukon".
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