Night of clouds
terror of their flight across the moon.
Over the long still plains
blows a wind out of the north;
a laden wind out of the north
rattles the leaves of the liveoaks
menacingly and loud.
* * * * *
Black as old blood on the cold plain
close throngs spread to beyond lead horizons
swaying shrouded crowds
and their rustle in the knife-keen wind
is like the dry death-rattle of the winter grass.
(Like mouldered shrouds the clouds fall
from the crumbling skull of the dead moon.)
Huge, of grinning brass
steaming with fresh stains
their God
gapes with smudged expectant gums
above the plain.
Flicker through the flames of the wide maw
rigid square bodies of men
opulence of childbearing women
slimness of young men, and girls
with small curved breasts.
(Loud as musketry rattles the sudden laughter of the dead.)
Thicker hotter the blood drips
from the cold brass lips.
Swift over grainless fields
swift over shellplowed lands
ever leaner swifter darker
bay the hounds of the dead,
before them drive the pale ones
white limbs scarred and blackened
laurel crushed in their cold fingers,
the spark quenched in their glazed eyes.
Thicker hotter the blood drips
from the avenging lips
of the brass God;
(and rattling loud as musketry
the laughter of the unsated dead).
* * * * *
The clouds have blotted the haggard moon.
A harsh wind shrills from the cities of the north
Ypres, Lille, Liege, Verdun,
and from the tainted valleys
the cross-scarred hills.
Over the long still plains
the wind out of the north
rattles the leaves of the liveoaks.
_Cuatro Caminos_