There was no sound at all, no crying in the village,
Nothing you would count as sound, that is, after the shells;
Only behind a wall the low sobbing of women,
The creaking of a door, a lost dog – nothing else.
Silence which might be felt, no pity in the silence,
Horrible, soft like blood, down all the blood-stained ways;
In the middle of the street two corpses lie unburied,
And a bayoneted woman stares in the market-place.
Humble and ruined folk – for these no pride of conquest,
Their only prayer: ‘O! Lord, give us our daily bread!’
Not by the battle fires, the shrapnel are we haunted;
Who shall deliver us from the memory of these dead?