In the middle of the flayed and yawning cemetery of living and dead, moonlike in the night, there is a wide extent of leveled ruins.

It was not a village that once was there, it was a hillside whose pale bones are like those of a village.

The other people--mine--have scooped fragile holes, and traced disastrous paths with their hands and with their feet.

Their faces are strained forward, their eyes search, they sniff the wind.
"Why are you fighting ?" "To save my country." The two answers fall as alike in the distance as two notes of a passing-bell, as alike as the voice of the guns.
* * * * * * And I--I am seeking; it is a fever, a longing, a madness.

I struggle, I would fain tear myself from the soil and take wing to the truth.