Watch down the meadows here, of half a sight of
slaughter, and stick down these rows furled lazy
with the grass of fair days and stilted with colours
of May. And see no horns, rooted like the children's
graves, all turned a pallid colour. And bathe now in
the sun of stilted memories gone to wind.

For no heads turn as sirens on the clock here, filled with
madness of spinning rocks on the hour. Nor any men
dressed as men without eyes, should we skinned heads
have to suckle death from their guns. No: now these Trees
had hanged the other way, turning from sights of sorted
mass into waking graves, and to wash in perfumes hazy
as the night sky, and rotten as anaemic lungs.

But watch down the meadows now, through fields of huts
and silence‒ for the pasture of death looks nothing like
violence. Where, upon a ravaged place, a Lark lands as
an infant would, and tenderly drifts, faint into innocent
shawls, damp with poison mud. But for what cause do
these blind bullet heads sink lower than flesh, and when
the Sun next rises, all shall be put to rest.