Issue 18, Spring 1958
A dream of battle on a windy night
Has wakened him. The shadows move once more
With rumors of alarm. He sees the height
And helmet of his terror in the door.
The guns reverberate; a livid arc
From sky to sky lightens the windowpanes
And all his room… The clock ticks in the dark,
A cool wind stirs the curtains, and it rains.
He lies remembering: “That’s how it was…”
And smiles, and drifts into a youthful sleep
Without a care. His life is all he has,
And that is given to the guards to keep.