If, in an odd angle of the hutment, <br />A puppy laps the water from a can <br />Of flowers, and the drunk sergeant shaving <br />Whistles O Paradiso!--shall I say that man <br />Is not as men have said: a wolf to man? <br /> <br />The other murderers troop in yawning; <br />Three of them play Pitch, one sleeps, and one <br />Lies counting missions, lies there sweating <br />Till even his heart beats: One; One; One. <br />O murderers! . . . Still, this is how it's done: <br /> <br />This is a war . . . But since these play, before they die, <br />Like puppies with their puppy; since, a man, <br />I did as these have done, but did not die-- <br />I will content the people as I can <br />And give up these to them: Behold the man! <br /> <br />I have suffered, in a dream, because of him, <br />Many things; for this last saviour, man, <br />I have lied as I lie now. But what is lying? <br />Men wash their hands, in blood, as best they can: <br />I find no fault in this just man.<br /><br />Randall Jarrell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/eighth-air-force/
