Part 1 — SUNDAY IN BARRACKS

Little silences Sit in the corners Munching their finger tips. I lie stretched flat upon my bunk. . . . I count the cracks in the pine-boards above me. I am alone. These others who fill the air with talk About right and wrong . . . life and death . . . With heavy-nailed footsteps And sometimes heavier profanity . . . What becomes of them on Sunday? Dinners . . . the beauty of women . . . Pretty talk. Camaraderie beside the lake . . . fellow for fellow, What does it matter? My little silences slide along the floor . . . Clamber up my bunk To grin at me in my loneliness. Then I think of the millions Who have none for whom to be lonely, French, English, German, Russ. . . . What does it matter the language? We are all one, Levelled in solitude. And I laugh at the silences, And laugh to see them scurrying back to their corners, Gibbering.