DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Banshee, whole no. 4, March 1944

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Banshee, whole no. 4, March 1944

Inside front cover

Dust~

The birth of earth! and armored monsters meet
To battle on the steaming planet's crust;
And later, 'neath the muscled cave man's feet.
He finds some teeth, a scaly hide -- and dust.

Then battle there the cave men. Murder bent,
They scream and die -- victims of their own lust.
The jungle cat finds only axe of flint
Beside the skeleton in writhing dust.

With fiery charges, mail and hammered gold
The knight rides forth, feels and returns the thrust.
The prowling wolf, with hunger on his soul,
Finds rusted lance and helm, bleached bones -- and dust.

The roar of guns, and Death is in the air.
Great cities fall; dull weapons lie with rust.
And through the black-fingered portals of despair
Vast armies march. . . . Four Horsemen stir the dust.

The weapons men have made are crumbling steel
Where corpses lie. A foggy fitful gust
Of wind unfurls a tattered banner o'er the field
Of souls forever doomed, who sank in dust.

The skies are dead. No birds adorn the trees
In Springtime, nor are pleasant framlands flushed
With flowers. Idly roll the deep blue seas,
The seas eternal.

--RAYMOND WASHINGTON, JR.

Saving...

Dust~ The birth of earth! and armored monsters meet To battle on the steaming planet's crust; And later, 'neath the muscled cave man's feet. He finds some teeth, a scaly hide -- and dust. Then battle there the cave men. Murder bent, They scream and die -- victims of their own lust. The jungle cat finds only axe of flint Beside the skeleton in writhing dust. With fiery charges, mail and hammered gold The knight rides forth, feels and returns the thrust. The prowling wolf, with hunger on his soul, Finds rusted lance and helm, bleached bones -- and dust. The roar of guns, and Death is in the air. Great cities fall; dull weapons lie with rust. And through the black-fingered portals of despair Vast armies march. . . . Four Horsemen stir the dust. The weapons men have made are crumbling steel Where corpses lie. A foggy fitful gust Of wind unfurls a tattered banner o'er the field Of souls forever doomed, who sank in dust. The skies are dead. No birds adorn the trees In Springtime, nor are pleasant framlands flushed With flowers. Idly roll the deep blue seas, The seas eternal. --RAYMOND WASHINGTON, JR.