The Hero
I went out to the city streets
Because a fire was in my head
And saw the people passing by
And wished the smallest of them dead,
And twisted by a bitter past,
And poisoned by a cold despair,
I found at last a resting place
And left my hatred ticking there.
When I was fleeing from the night
And sweating in my room again,
I heard the old futilities
Exploding like a cry of pain;
But horror, should it touch the heart,
Would freeze my hand upon the fuse,
And I must shed no tears for those
Who merely have a life to lose.
Though I am sick with murdering
Though killing is my native land,
I will find out where death has gone,
And kiss his lips and take his hand;
And hide among the withered grass,
And pluck, till love and life are done,
The shrivelled apples of the moon,
The cankered apples of the sun.
-Roger Woddis (referencing Yeats)
