September, 1938

There arose those winning life between two wars,

Born out of one, doomed food for the other,

Floodroars ever in the ears.

Slothlovers hardly, hardly fighters:

Resentment spent against stone, long beaten out of

Minds resigned to the new:

Useless to queue for respirators.

Besides, what worse chaos to come back to.

Home, limbs heavy with mud and work, to sleep

To sweep out a house days deep in dirt.

Knowing finally man would limbs loin face

Efface utterly, leaving in his place

Engines rusting to world's end, heirs to warfare

Fonctionnant d'une mani`ere automatique.