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Between the sob and clubbing of the gunfire Someone, it seems, has time for this, To pluck them from the shallows and bury them in burrows And tread the sand upon their nakedness; And each cross, the driven stake of tidewood, Bears the last signature of men, Written with such perplexity, with such bewildered pity, The words choke as they begin - 'Unknown seaman' - the ghostly pencil Wavers and fades, the purple drips, The breath of wet season has washed their inscriptions As blue as drowned men's lips, Dead seamen, gone in search of the same landfall, Whether as enemies they fought, Or fought with us, or neither; the sand joins them together, Enlisted on the other front.

SMOKE upon smoke; over the stone lips Of chimneys bleeding, a darker fume descends.

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Cool person with weakness for Black Metal and the occult looking for friends and hopefully my soulless mate : P I work as an engineer and paint quite cute but bloody paintings.Readers, next week is Valentine's day, as you're probably aware.No, I don't also consider it "Singles Awareness Day" or what have you, since you don't need to be in a relationship to show appreciation to your friends with little cards or to stuff your face with chocolate.These original ideas would later influence modernist writers.Softly and humbly to the Gulf of Arabs The convoys of dead sailors come; At night they sway and wander in the waters far under, But morning rolls them in the foam.

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