加载中…【Wilfred Owen】——The Show
(2013-02-23 22:12:15)
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My soul looked down from a
vague height with Death, As
unremembering how I rose or
why, And saw a sad land, weak with sweats
of dearth, Gray, cratered like
the moon with hollow woe, And fitted with
great pocks and scabs of
plaques.
Across its beard, that horror
of harsh wire, There moved thin
caterpillars, slowly uncoiled.
It seemed they pushed themselves to be as
plugs Of ditches, where they
writhed and shrivelled, killed.
By them had slimy paths been
trailed and scraped Round myriad warts
that might be little
hills.
From gloom's last dregs these
long-strung creatures crept, And
vanished out of dawn down
hidden holes.
(And smell came up from those
foul openings As out of mouths, or
deep wounds
deepening.)
On dithering feet upgathered,
more and more, Brown strings towards
strings of gray, with bristling
spines, All migrants from green fields, intent
on mire.
Those that were gray, of more
abundant spawns, Ramped on the rest
and ate them and were
eaten.
I saw their bitten backs curve,
loop, and straighten, I watched those
agonies curl, lift, and
flatten.
Whereat, in terror what that
sight might mean, I reeled and shivered
earthward like a
feather.
And Death fell with me, like a
deepening moan. And He, picking a
manner of worm, which half had
hid Its bruises in the earth, but crawled
no further, Showed me its feet,
the feet of many men, And the freshsevered
head of it, my
head.
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