Their outlines are rigid, and one divines faces of stone.
Their rifles are slung and they have nothing in their hands.

They come on like sleep-walkers, only knowing how to put one foot before the other, and surely they are singing.

Yonder, in the bulk of the invasion, the guns continue to destroy whole walls and whole structures of life at will.

On the edges of it we can clearly see isolated silhouettes and groups as they fall, with an extended line of figures like torchlights.
Now they are there, fifty paces away, breathing their ether into our faces.

We do not know what to do.