From: K2 Global Communications (found on the Internet) on this Veterans Day [includes videos]
GOD HAVE MERCY ON THE FORLORN SOLDIER
By Sgt. Harry Shaw,
U.S. Army Retired, Bandera, Texas14 Feb., 2013
It is not the soldiers who dream up war.
This is the craft of kings; and generals;
and old men who forget; industry’s barons;
clever men of science; the diplomatic corps.
God have mercy on the forlorn soldier!
The scars he carries, our sins atoned!
The pack he shoulders bites hardest on them who deflect their shame on hearts casehardened.
Somewhere, the great Marshal’s plan the losses of the next war.
Logistics.
Casualties.
Yet, never ask the soldier if he could…afford it.
Anthem for Doomed Youth
By Wilfred Owen
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons. No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,—
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
Dulce et Decorum est
By Wilfred Owen
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.
GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!– An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.–
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,–
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment