And fearful dreams encompass me:
A cart, a crimson one,
Behind—backs bent—the sons of my country
Go wearily.

Mothers hold high their gold-curled babes,
Lamenting loudly, and
With mutilated hand,
Beside
The church porch, pointing to the purple standard,
A legless soldier sobs, abandoned,
His crutches burned before his eyes,
And red dust—swirling—to the skies.

The creak of rusty wheels...
A mare Rears wildly. Flags adorn
The windows, all and everywhere.
One—has its curtains drawn.

November 1920