Though we were children then
I remember the fanatic struggle
when friends opposed one another.
I sometimes hear the sullen groans
and the triumphant cries
above the thunder and the distant splash
of iron-balls.

We were enchanted still
by the sprinkle of light on the twisted leaves.
We threw our voices at the hill
and they rebounded in the bay below
like pebbles ricocheting from a cliff.
We were thrilled by the howl
of the terrier wind
that broke root and
trunk in that season of violence.

But now we are older,
our lips compressed with scorn
and bitter with betrayal.
The drum and pipe are silent;
and we are weary of waiting
while the enemy is entrenching.
So fettered are we by our consciousness,
never were we more free than in enslavement:
release brought self-imprisonment.

Each evening there is darkness at the door.
Each morning terror of the light.