一

        一輛卡車的後檔板覆蓋著一塊白布，

        權充祭壇；兩支蠟燭

        畢剝燃在十字架兩旁   

          四周撤滿花朵，比血色更鮮，

        比我們的啟示錄更紅，

        木槿花，一個行軍者會把它摘下

        插在步槍或帽子上；

        大大的藍色牽牛花，顏色蒼白

        像不能再品味、接吻或發誓的嘴唇。

        風兒開始低聲唱起頌主詩歌，

        牧師說著話，棕擱樹旋動自己的頭髮，

        一支支隊伍踏過泥濘來此彙攏。

            二 

        我們也是灰燼，當我們觀看和聆聽

        聖歌、悲哀和樸素的 讚詞

        獻給一個人，他對未來的憧憬

        與我們一樣，但如今已完全破滅，

        他用青春譜寫的服役履歷一筆了清，

        他的美夢被槍聲驅散，毫無蹤影。

        我們能感到的只是對陣亡的震驚，

        它似乎恰恰表明懷疑，

        而疑慮把我們的僥倖之心扔進溝渠。

        站在這壕坑邊祈禱的保羅的讀經師，

        我們該相信自己的眼睛呢，還是相信

        虛空之外敘述榮耀和新生的傳奇?

            三

        因為這位戰友已經死了，在戰火中死去，

        一個年輕人，他的千百萬同齡人仍然活著，

        這個人脫離了戰爭所給予的一切，

        自由自在，飄飄悠悠。

        誰在這肅穆的人群中哀悼亡靈

        這些人在子彈射中目標以前

        並不感到痛切? 這可敬的血肉之軀，

        這小夥子躺在棺材中沈思──

        有誰尚未用同樣的旗幟包裹自己，

        聽見塵土輕輕落下，傷口仍在流血，

        感到雙眼緊閉，聽到遠處傳來

        人間最後一陣炮火齊鳴?

           四      

        我碰巧目睹他死去，四肢伸展仰臥在地，

        刺有花紋的手臂拾起

        接受另一個人的血從封罐注入他身體。我站立

        眼看臨終前的神志昏迷

        讓他的靈魂再彌留一時半刻，

        接著呼吸停止，發出最後一聲喘息。

        生命的結束如此突然，就像一出荒誕的戲，

        一個傻子砰地關上－扇可笑的門，

        荒謬的結局，彷彿預先排定，

        所有關鍵性的臺詞尚待說及。

        於是我們解散，沒有變化，更加憤怒，

        對無人譴責一片沈寂感到噁心。

            五

        我們不要陣亡人數統計，

        因為這些沒有任何政治意義：

        這一陣亡者或一切陣亡者，

        失蹤或養傷，倒下或潰退，

        幾十萬人記錄在冊，幾百萬人毫無消息。

        與其說出於自願，不如說是偶然事故

        造成每一例陣亡，這一戰死者與其他戰死者一樣。

        不論別人怎樣計算付出的代價，

        對我們而言最終歸結為一，

        一個有名有姓的人，一個被送進天堂的人；

        雖然另一人俯身拿起槍，

        我們不能將第二人加到第一人身上。

        ……

            六

        哀悼的時間短促，這最適合於

        犧牲的軍人。我們揭去旗，將它折起，

        讓帶著標籤的棺木裸現，

        我們緩緩走開。在我們身後，另四個人等著

        抬起靈柩，最沈重的負載。

        沈悶的下午令人生厭，

        使我們感官麻木，欲語還休。

        我們知道在明天的征途上

        其他的人將倒下，也許是我們自己，身旁的人

        全世界受到威脅的人，一切行進的人：

        倘若我們能為這一死者立碑，

        我們將在他的名字和死期下書寫：

            墓誌銘

        在這本質十字架下安臥著

        一個戰死的基督徒。請你記住，

        這陌生人在痛苦中死去；

        當你路過此地，放眼看看

        由人類教義維護的和平景象?

        你便懂得一名士兵並沒有枉然捐軀。

I

A white sheet on the tail-gate of a truck
becomes an altar; two small candlesticks
sputter at each side of the crucifix
Laid round with flowers brighter than the
       blood,
Red as the red of our apocalypse,
Hibiscus that a marching man will pluck
To stick into his rifle or his hat,
And great blue morning-glories pale as lips
That shall no longer taste or kiss or swear.
The wind begins a low magnificat,
The chaplain chats, the palmtrees swirl their
       hair,
The columns come together through the mud

    II

We too are ashes as we watch and hear
The psalm, the sorrow, and the simple praise
Of one whose promised thoughts of other days
Were such as ours, but now wholly destroyed,
The service record of his youth wiped out,
His dream dispersed by shot, must disappear.
What can we feel but wonder at a loss
That seems to point at nothing but the doubt
Which flirts our sense of luck into the ditch?
Reader of Paul who prays beside this fosse,
Shall we believe our eyes or legends rich
With glory and rebirth beyond the void?

    Ill

For this comrade is dead, dead in the war,
A young man out of millions yet to live,
One cut away from all that war can give,
Freedom of self and peace to wander free.
Who mourns in all this sober multitude
Who did not feel the bite of it before
The bullet found its aim? This worthy flesh,
This boy laid in a coffin and reviewed－
Who has not wrapped himself in this same flag,
Heard the light fall of dirt, his wound still fresh,
Felt his eyes closed, and heard the distant brag
Of the last volley of humanity?

    IV

By chance I saw him die, stretched on the
       ground,
A tattooed arm lifted to take the blood
Of someone else sealed in a tin. I stood
During the last delirium that stays
The intelligence a tiny moment more,
And then the strangulation, the last sound
The end was sudden, like a foolish play,
A stupid fool slamming a foolish door,
The absurd catastrophe, half-prearranged,
And all the decisive things still left to say.
So we disbanded, angrier and unchanged,
Sick with the utter silence of dispraise.

    V

We ask for no statistics of the killed,
For nothing political impinges on
This single casualty, or all those gone,
Missing or healing, sinking or dispersed,
Hundreds of thousands counted, millions lost.
More than an accident and less than willed
Is every fall, and this one like the rest.
However others calculate the cost,
To us the final aggregate is one,
One with a name, one transferred to the blest;
And though another stoops and takes the gun,
We cannot add the second to the first.

    XI

The time to mourn is short that best becomes
The military dead. We lift and fold the flag,
Lay bare the coffin with its written tag,
And march away. Behind, four others wait
To lift the box, the heaviest of loads.
The anesthetic afternoon benumbs,
Sickens our senses, forces back our talk.
We know that others on tomorrow's roads
Will fall, ourselves perhaps, the man beside,
Over the world the threatened, all who walk:
And could we mark the grave of him who died
We would write this beneath his name and
       date:

    EPITAPH

Underneath this wooden cross there lies
A Christian killed in battle. You who read,
Remember that this stranger died in pain;
And passing here, if you can lift your eyes
Upon a peace kept by a human creed,
Know that one soldier has not died in vain.