He wrote this poem when he was only 15 years old.
" While the red spittle of shrapnel whistles all day across the infinite blue sky; whether scarlet or green, by the King who mocks them, The battalions crumble en masse in the fire;
While a terrible madness crushes
And makes of a hundred thousand men a smoking heap;
– Poor dead! In the summer, in the grass, in your joy, nature! Oh, you who made these men so holy...
– There is a God, who laughs at the damasked cloths Of altars, at the incense, at the great golden chalices; Who sleeps in the rocking of hosannas
And wakes up, when mothers, gathered
In anguish, and weeping under their old black bonnet, Give him a hefty coin wrapped in their handkerchief! "
" While the red spittle of shrapnel whistles all day across the infinite blue sky; whether scarlet or green, by the King who mocks them, The battalions crumble en masse in the fire;
While a terrible madness crushes
And makes of a hundred thousand men a smoking heap;
– Poor dead! In the summer, in the grass, in your joy, nature! Oh, you who made these men so holy...
– There is a God, who laughs at the damasked cloths Of altars, at the incense, at the great golden chalices; Who sleeps in the rocking of hosannas
And wakes up, when mothers, gathered
In anguish, and weeping under their old black bonnet, Give him a hefty coin wrapped in their handkerchief! "
