Suddenly he sang across the trenches,
vivid in the fleeting hush
as a star-shell through the smashed black branches,
a more than English thrush.
Suddenly he sang, and those who listened
nor moved nor wondered, but
heard, all bewitched, the sweet unhastened
One crouched, a muddied rifle clasping,
and one filled grenade,
but little cared they, while he went lisping
the one cleat tune he had.
Paused horror, hate and Hell a moment,
(you could almost hear the sigh)
and still he sang to them, and so went
(suddenly) singing by.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem