The front is a mysterious whirlpool
It sucks [us] slowly, irresistibly, inescapably into itself
Between heaven and earth it rolls on immeasurably
It is the moaning of the world. It is a martyred creation.
The sun lies warm on the heavy grey stones
The heat hangs over the square
It sinks heavily into our shell holes
[We] might as well be thin air
The mud flies high
Fragments whiz past
Heavy fire is falling on us
They are a surging sea
Daggers of flame leap up like fountains
We sit in our graves waiting only to be closed in
Death is hunting us down
Now for the first time we can see his face
No, we are not related. No, we are not related
[He is] a soundless apparition that speaks to [us] without any words
Words, words, words- they do not reach [us]
[He] touches [us] before [he] dissolves in the light of the next star shell
Terror can be endured so long as a man simply ducks
But [he] kills, if a man thinks about [him]