In my uncle with his plane, I saw a tight formation of bombers
encircled by a ring of Messerschmitts.
Nephew, it cannot be said that you are living and I am dead. Nor that you are ahead of yourself in life, or any nearer now to death. There is nothing of your uncle left in me.
But ahead toward London, let by plummeting down.
I saw my first one go. Thing burst through upward and outward.
I saw several short tongues of flame licking out along the fuselage.
My like to call my uncle back in paper,
not into a cultivated land, nor as drink for men, nor for cattle,
but into rows, conquering and to conquer, without ” without.