in memory of Isaac Rosenberg (1890-1918)
Does anybody know what it was all for?
Not Private Rosenberg, short as John Keats.
A nudge from Ezra Pound took him to war,
to sleep on boards, in France, with rotting feet,
writing his poetry by candle ends.
His fellow soldiers always found him odd.
Outsiders do not easily make friends
if they are awkward - with a foreign God.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem