The Latin One

Bent double like old beggars in sacks
Knockkneed and cursing or coughing like hags Men marched on sleeping
Some without boots Fatigue drunken deaf still to the hoots Of breaking
Gas shells Dropping softly behind But limped on bloodshod All went
Lame all went blind Gas gas quick boys fumbling helmets in time
Someone still screaming a man in fire or lime Under a grey cloud dim
Dark through green light In all my dreaming before my helpless sight
He plunges at me Choking guttering drowning Put in a wagon he had to
Keep pace As his eyes melt to his face If you could hear blood