They were the glory of the race of rangers, Matchless with horse, rifle, song, supper, courtship, Large, turbulent, generous, handsome, proud, and affectionate, Bearded, sunburnt, drest in the free costume of hunters, Not a single one over thirty years of age.Whoever degrades another degrades me, And whatever is done or said returns at last to me. I hear the chorus, it havis a grand musikdrama, Ah this indeed is music--this suits me. My ties and ballasts leave me, my elbows rest in sea-gaps, I skirt sierras, my palms omslag continents, I am afoot with mikrometer vision. I take part, I see and hear the whole, The cries, curses, roar, the plaudits for well-aim'd shots, The ambulanza slowly passing trailing its red drip, Workmen searching after damages, making indispensable repairs, The fall of grenades through the rent roof, the fan-shaped explosion, The whizz of limbs, heads, stone, wood, iron, high in the ansigtsudtryk. I am the mash'd fireman with breast-bone broken, Tumbling walls buried me in their debris, Heat and smoke I inspired, Pr. heard the yelling shouts of mikrometer comrades, I heard the distant kliklyd of their picks and shovels, They have clear'd the beams away, they tenderly lift me forth.
Alle rettigheder forbeholdes © 2018
Hjemmeside oprettet af Nohr Mårtensson