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 goodbyes.
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.
— Wilfred Owen, Anthem for Doomed Youth
1 comment:
One day we may awaken to our madness, but I doubt it will be any time soon.
To all of those who've fallen in the name of our defence, rest easy. Your sacrifice will not have been in vain, for there are those of us who still treasure Liberty above all, and will pick up your rifle to continue the fight...
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