IN journeyings my weak soul makes And breaks the pestilence of swarming sin. I am the traveller through the burning lakes Who bears the body with the message in.
I am the field of war where Good and Bad Mingle and batter and break striving for place, Like well-matched warriors making an Iliad Behind the fixed flesh barrier of my face.
Though battles and adventures over again Possess this celluloid within my skull Bones must escape the circumstantial rain ; Blood must remain unspilt ; flesh plentiful.
The play must stay in print avoiding action. Or else the text will suffer in translation.