The Sympathizers

To this man, to his boned shoulders Came the descent of pain. All kinds, Cruel, blind, dear, horrid, hallowed, Rained, again, again. To this small white blind boned face, Wherever it was, Descended The blows of pain, it took as it were blinded, As it were made for this. We were there. We uneasy Did not know if it were. Knew neither The reason nor the man nor whether To share, or to beware.