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 Not as we do, drained of our blood, with weeping.

Sell yourselves, oh, give yourselves to the cripples,

Give yourself to the weak, the poor forgotten,

Give yourself to those who escape the torture

And buy their blood from the pools with weight of gold.

Give yourselves to them, pass on, forget us;

We, any few that are left, a remnant,

Sit alone together in cold and darkness,

Dare not face the light for fear we discover

The dread woe, the agony in our faces,

Sit alone without sound in bitter dreaming

Of our friends, our dear brothers, the young men,

Who were mangled and abolished, squeezed dry of blood,

Emptied and cast aside that the lakes might widen,

That the lips of the women might be sweet to the old men.

Go your ways, you women, pass and forget us,

We are sick of blood, of the taste and sight of it;

Go now to those who bleed not and to the old men,

They will give you beautiful love in answer!

But we, we are alone, we are desolate,

Thinning the blood of our brothers with weeping,

Crying for our brothers, the men we fought with,

Crying out, mourning them, alone with our dead ones;

Praying that our eyes may be blinded

Lest we go mad in a world of scarlet,

Dripping, oozing from the veins of our brothers.

January, 1918.