Hour by hour I heard him shriek
To the skies and the White Man’s God—
But only the gluttons came again
And reddened the reeking sod.
Weeping, writhing, groaning—
Paled to an ashen dun—
And the clotted blood turned black as mud
And stunk in the midday sun.
(Bones where stretched the tautening flesh—
A shining, yellow sheen—
And the flies that helped the leeches work
In the stagnant pools between.)
. . . . . . . . . .
Till the fourth day broke in a blaze of gold—
And I knew the end was nigh—
And I called the tribes from near and far,
To watch the White Man die.
From every kampong of the south
Where the broad Barito winds—
From every kampong of the east
The murmuring hill-wind finds—
From every kampong of the west
Where the Djoeloi falls and leaps—
From every kampong of the north
Where the great Mohakkam sweeps—
From east and west and south and north
The mighty warriors came,
To prove the weight of the Dyak hate
And the shame of the naked shame.
In noiseless scorn and wonder
They scanned the victim there,
Except that when an Elder spake
To mock at his despair.
Or when from out the long-house—
Where loosened footboards creaked—
A woman leaned in frenzy
And tore her hair and shrieked.
And from the wooded hill-tops
The answering echoes came,
Till all our far-flung wilderness
Stooped down to curse his name.
In sullen, savage silence
They watched the streamlets flow:
In savage, sullen silence—
The war-lords—row on row—