On the Wire

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 swells      Fierce as a hundred hells!      God, will it never have done?      It's searing the flesh on my bones;      It's beating with hammers red      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 sight      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 see      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 I      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. . . .