ON THE MARCH
Bright berries on the roadside,
Clear among your dusty leaves,
Red, mottled berries,
You are as beautiful
As the points of a girl's breasts;
You are as firm and fresh …
Beauty of the morning sun
Among the red berries
Of early September,
You tear at my breast,
Your light crushes me
With memory of freedom lost
And warm hours blotted out.
I will throw away rifle and leather belt,
Straps, khaki and heavy nailed boots,
And run naked across the dewy grass
Among the firm red berries!
I will be free
And sing of beauty and the women of Hellas,
Of rent seas and the peace of olive gardens,
Of these rough meadows,
Of the keen welcome smell of London mud!
I will be free …
Party—HALT!