Relieved
(G UILLEMONT )
We are weary and silent;
There is only the rhythm of marching feet;
Though we move tranced we keep it,
As clockwork toys.
But each man is alone in this multitude;
We know not the world in which we move,
Seeing not the dawn, earth pale and shadowy,
Level lands of tenuous grays and greens,
For our eyeballs have been seared with fire.
Only we have our secret thoughts,
Our sense floats out from us delicately apprehensive
To the very fringes of our being,
Where light drowns.
We are weary and silent;
There is only the rhythm of marching feet;
Though we move tranced we keep it,
As clockwork toys.
But each man is alone in this multitude;
We know not the world in which we move,
Seeing not the dawn, earth pale and shadowy,
Level lands of tenuous grays and greens,
For our eyeballs have been seared with fire.
Only we have our secret thoughts,
Our sense floats out from us delicately apprehensive
To the very fringes of our being,
Where light drowns.
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