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
