Backed to the brown wars of the square
The lightless lorry headlamps stare
With glinting reflectors through the night
At our gliding star of light.
Houses are tombs, tarpaulins cover
Mysterious trucks of the lorries over.
The town vacantly seems to wait
The explosion of a fate.
Our cigarettes and talking stir
Beneath the walls a small false ember.
A sentry stops us at his hut
Stamping with his rifle-butt.
Beside him stands a working man
With cheeks where suns have run.
'Take this comrade to the next village.'
The lines ploughed with ravage
Lift to a smile, the eyes gleam
And then relapse into their dream.
Head bent, he shuffles forward
And in without a word.