Among Those Killed In The Dawn Raid Was A Man Aged A Hundred
When
the
morning
was
waking
over
the
war
He
put
on
his
clothes
and
stepped
out
and
he
died,
The
locks
yawned
loose
and
a
blast
blew
them
wide,
He
dropped
where
he
loved
on
the
burst
pavement
stone
And
the
funeral
grains
of
the
slaughtered
floor.
Tell
his
street
on
its
back
he
stopped
a
sun
And
the
craters
of
his
eyes
grew
springshots
and
fire
When
all
the
keys
shot
from
the
locks,
and
rang.
Dig
no
more
for
the
chains
of
his
grey-haired
heart.
The
heavenly
ambulance
drawn
by
a
wound
Assembling
waits
for
the
spade's
ring
on
the
cage.
O
keep
his
bones
away
from
the
common
cart,
The
morning
is
flying
on
the
wings
of
his
age
And
a
hundred
storks
perch
on
the
sun's
right
hand.
