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On The Wire

Robert Service

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. . . .

Added: 29 Jun 2002 | Last Read: 24 Jun 2018 12:47 PM | Viewed: 6082 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/5310/ | Viewed on 24 June 2018.
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