The oscillation of the march, assailed on both sides by the trench, brings brief and paltry halts, in which we recline against the walls, or cast ourselves on them.

We embrace the earth, since nothing else is left us to embrace.
Then Movement seizes us again.

Metrified by regular jolts, by the shock of each step, by our prisoned breathing, it loses its hold no more, but becomes incarnate in us.

It sets one small word resounding in our heads, between our teeth--"Forward!"-- longer, more infinite than the uproar of the shells.

It sets us making, towards the east or towards the north, bounds which are days and nights in length.