World Of Wars 7 |
Journalist:
The Martians spent the night making a new machine.
It was a squat metallic spider with huge articulated claws.
On top it had a hood in which a Martian sat.
I watched it pursuing some people across the field.
The spider caught them nimbly and tossed them
into a great metal basket upon his back
Parson:
Beth!
She's dead buried under the rubble.
Why Satan, why did you take one of your own?
There is a curse of mankind!
We may as well be resigned,
to let the Devil, take the spirit of man…
As time past in our dark and dusty prison,
the parson wrestled endlessly with his doubts.
His outcries invited dead for us both
and yet, I pitied him….
Then on the ninth day we saw the Martians eating,
inside in there new hood.
They where draining the fresh living blood of men and women,
injecting it in their own veins…
Parson:
It's a sign,
I've been given a sign!
They have to be cast out,
and I have been chosen to do it.
I must confront them now.
Journalist:
No parson, No!!
Parson:
Those machines are just demons in an other form.
I shall destroy them with my prayers.
I will burn them with my holy cross.
I shall…
The curious eye of a Martian appeared at the window.
A menacing claw came in and started to explore the room.
I dragged the body of the parson down to the coal cellar.
I heard the Martian fumbling at the ledge.
In the darkness, I could see the claw touching things,
and then it touched my boot…
I almost shouted!!
For a time, it was still and then with a click, it gripped something.
The parson with slow deliberated movements his unconscious
body was dragged away.
And there was nothing I could do to prevent it….
I crept to the blocked window and peered through the creeper.
The Martians and all their machines where gone.
Trembling I dug my way out,
and clambered to the top of the mound.
Not a Martian in sight.
The day seemed dazzling bright after my imprisonment,
and the sky was glowing blue.
Red weed covered every scrap of ground,
and a gentle breeze kept it swaying.
Oh, the sweetness of the fresh air….
squat = kort och tjock
nimbly = kvickt
menacing = hotfull
mound = kulle
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