THE BATTLE TO THE SOUTH OF THE CITY

How dim the battle-field, as yellow dusk! The fighting men are like a swarm of ants. The air is thick, the sun a red wheel. Blood dyes the wild chrysanthemums purple. Vultures hold the flesh of men in their mouths, They are heavy with food—they cannot rise to fly. There were men yesterday on the city wall; There are ghosts to-day below the city wall. Colours of flags like a net of stars, Rolling of horse-carried drums—not yet is the killing ended. From the house of the Unworthy One—a husband, sons, All within earshot of the rolling horse-drums.