1. And an army like the back of the raging sea, blown by the morning breeze
Surging with waves, spears and missiles

2. Whose vanguards attack though not to settle
And whose rearguards march away though not to return

3. And a fierce, terrible battle whose strokes
Are goblets of blood from kidneys and joints

4. They pass them leisurely among themselves
On thin, white pages or with jet black messages

5. And in their midst the mother of death makes them hear
The singing of the blades beneath the cleavers