But none goes to kiss him. And no one will.
The black cover is nailed on; the candle, melting, falls.
(No sister lamenting, nor mother fainting with grief!)
This is a soldier, an orphan—then who should mourn?
THE RECRUIT
In the great Emperor’s courtyard
He stood at his post on the pavement.
He washed his face and dried it
As the duck her wings in water.
He washed his face with his tears—