It may be that the beauty of landscapes
exists only in our eyes:
Tomorrow, no other landscape will be seen
than a church in flames,
and then we shall have lost the count
of clenched hands:
for we shall have risen by then
and sown with our cries
that field which before was the realm of silence only.
A hundred million bullets will have sped
to explore the breasts of a hundred million men,
and we shall see the crumbling battalions fall
like kernels of corn.
Beside what was once a house
a deaf child, entranced, will watch
a rose of blood blossoming upon a breast
from the narrow cranny of a wound.
(No longer sweet landscapes,
no longer songs of birds to beguile our hunger,
no longer pods singing the beauty of the stars
and the gay curves of riggish females).
We shall all have gone back to the earth
and we shall feel that our roots are growing into it.
And while the fanes burn red, color of blood,
since the seed of that flame will have sprung from our very hearts,
our lips will sing a strong hymn of total owning,
of endless joy, above that new earth
that will have flowered as never before,
made fertile by a hundred million dead.
men and machines,
in their eyes an unknown new light,
their breasts swollen with the recent song,
shall march, gravely, through the falling dusk,
searching for silence.