Everything leans, like tottering, hunched old women.

Every eye shines with fixed waiting
and for the word, "when?"

Here there are few soldiers.
Only shot-down birds tell of war.

You believe every bit of news you hear.

The buildings now are fuller,
Body smelling close to body,
And the garrets scream with light for long, long hours.

This evening I walked along the street of death.
On one wagon, they were taking the dead away.

Why have so many marches been drummed here?

Why so many soldiers?

A week after the end,
Everything will be empty here.
A hungry dove will peck for bread.
In the middle of the street will stand
An empty, dirty


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