Here you will find the Poem The Dancers: (During A Great Battle, 1916) of poet Dame Edith Sitwell
The floors are slippery with blood: The world gyrates too. God is good That while His wind blows out the light For those who hourly die for is ? We still can dance each night. The music has grown numb with death ? But we will suck their dying breath, The whispered name they breathed to chance, To swell our music, make it loud That we may dance, - may dance. We are the dull blind carrion-fly That dance and batten. Though God die Mad from the horror of the light ? The light is mad, too, flecked with blood, - We dance, we dance, each night.
