Morning rises, long and narrow as our lot.

We reach a busy trench-crossing.

A stench catches my throat: some cess-pool into which these streets suspended in the earth empty their sewage?
No, we see rows of stretchers, each one swollen.

There is a tent there of gray canvas, which flaps like a flag, and on its fluttering wall the dawn lights up a bloody cross.
* * * * * * Sometimes, when we are high enough for our eyes to unbury themselves, I can dimly see some geometrical lines, so confused, so desolated by distance, that I do not know if it is our country or the other; even when one sees he does not know.

Our looks are worn away in looking.
We do not see, we are powerless to people the world.