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. . . .