This being a time confused and with few clear stars, Either private ones or public, Out of its darkness I make a litany For the lost, for the half-lost, for the desperate, For all of those who suffer, not in the flesh. I will say their name, but not yet. This is for those Who talk to the bearded man in the quiet office, Sensibly, calmly, explaining just how it was, And suddenly burst into noisy, quacking tears; For those who live through the party, wishing for death; For those who take the sensible country walks, Wondering if people stare; For those who try to hook rugs in the big, bright room And do it badly and are pleased with the praise; For the night and the fear and the demons of the night; For the lying back on the couch and the wincing talk. This is for those who work and those who may not, For those who suddenly come to a locked door, And the work falls out of their hands; For those who step off the pavement into hell, Having not observed the red light and the warning signals Because they were busy or ignorant or proud. This is for those who are bound in the paper chains That are stronger than links of iron; this is for those Who each day heave the papier-mache rock Up the huge and burning hill, And there is no rock and no hill, but they do not know it. This is for those who wait till six for the drink, Till eleven for the tablet; And for those who cannot wait but go to the darkness; And for those who long for the darkness but do not go, Who walk to the window and see the body falling, Hear the thud of air in the ears, And then turn back to the room and sit down again, None having observed the occurrence but themselves. Christ, have mercy upon us. Freud, have mercy upon us. Life, have mercy upon us. This is for those Who painfully haul the dark fish out of the dark, The child's old nightmare, embalmed in its own pain, And, after that, get well or do not get well, But do not forget the sulphur in the mouth Or the time when the world was different, not for a while. And for those also, the veterans Of another kind of war, Who say "No thanks" to the cocktails, who say "No thanks. Well, yes, give me Coca-Cola" with the trained smile, Those who hid the bottles so cleverly in the trunk, Who bribed the attendant, who promised to be good, Who woke in the dirty bed in the unknown town. They are cured, now, very much cured. They are tanned and fine. Their eyes are their only scars. This is for those with the light white scars on the wrists, Who remember the smell of gas and the vomiting, And it meant little and it is a well-known symptom And they were always careful to phone, before. Nevertheless, they remember. This is for those Who heard the music suddenly get too loud, Who could not alter the fancy when it came. Chloral, have mercy upon us. Amytal, have mercy upon us. Nembutal, have mercy upon us. This occurs more or less than it did in the past times. There are statistics. There are no real statistics. There is also no heroism. There is merely Fatigue, pain, great confusion, sometimes recovery. The name, as you know is Legion. What's your name, friend? Where are you from and how did you get here? The name is Legion. It's Legion in the case history. Friends, Romans, countrymen, Mr. and Mrs. Legion is the name.