How many men are fallen, sons of men,
how many dead and dying
in great Ascalon and Tyre?
How many widows crying
where blood flows down like water
from a horse's smashing hoof?
How many youths lie dead, O sons of men?
How many in the grave unwed,
where roses grow, and poppies,
on the bloody fields of war?
How many, O ye nations?
How many slip to darkness,
each face to be seen no more?
How many men are fallen, sons of men?
In starlit skies, brightly shining,
Mars has wandered to work his will;
the wolves on the plain are howling,
crows and vultures take their fill.
The formless hand its word has written;
read, O men, the script as bidden,
a word, a pang, a question:
We see it in gilded fire
on those blessed, familiar places,
the children's heads in play,
on their foreheads and on their faces:
"Quick pickings and easy prey".
An angel in heaven was flying
to and fro o'er all the earth;
an angel in loud voice crying,
"How many, O sons of men?"