On his own legs. He tottered on the brink

Of fainting, with each step he seemed to sink;

At last, his legs gave up, and he fell down

The steps and lay there, stretched out on the ground.

‘Twas Wasilewski. He had been confined

With us here till they took him out one time

For questioning, and gave him such a whacking

That color in his cheeks was always lacking

From that day forth. And then a soldier ran

Up to him, picked him up in one big hand

To help him to the wagon (on the sly

He used his other to wipe his own eyes dry).

Now, Wasilewski didn’t faint, or sag,

Or droop, he just fell outright on the flags.

There on the soldier’s breast, his arms around

His neck, he looked like one just taken down

From the cross. His eyes were a horrible sight —

Round and wide-open, and completely white.

The crowd as well opened wide their eyes and mouths

And from a thousand breasts there then rushed out

A common sigh — a deep, underground moan