Red drips from my chin where I have been eating.
Not all the blood, nowhere near all, is wiped off my mouth.
Clots of red mess my hair
And the tiger, the buffalo, know how.
I was a killer.
Yes, I am a killer.
I come from killing.
I go to more.
I drive red joy ahead of me from killing.
Red gluts and red hungers run in the smears and juices
of my inside bones:
The child cries for a suck mother and I cry for war.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Fight by Carl Sandburg )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(28 May 1779 – 25 February 1852)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
- Invictus, William Ernest Henley
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
- If, Rudyard Kipling
- Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, Dylan Thomas
- I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, Maya Angelou
- Phenomenal Woman, Maya Angelou
- Television, Roald Dahl
- Nothing Gold Can Stay, Robert Frost
Poem of the Day
- Escaping The World, silenced work
- Lonely, silenced work
- Agnostic Afloat, Donal Mahoney
- Unharmed Pinecones, Saiom Shriver
- Goodluck Jonathan, Okoemu Barnabas
- Money Saved Is Money Earned, DEEPAK KUMAR PATTANAYAK
- cool with me, Cee Bea
- Down and Dirty, Buddy Bee Anthony
- I Never, Sergi Dutronc
- Love for everyone, Andy Sayasone