Beyond the frenzied crowds that cheer
I hear the rustling restless ghosts
Who pace my darkened rooms and muse
What their corpses meant for those
Who on streets now dance and sing.
One by one those wounded heads
Rise from streams of blood and call:
"Where's the price of martyr's blood?
How much long the sanguine trail
From our huts to thrones of blood?"
Dazed in scenes of mindless joy,
Mine is only helpless loss.
Down below in perfect sun,
Feasting ants and maggots run
Nibbling on some trampled flesh
Fanned awhile in gentle breeze.