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.
~Anthem for Doomed Youth ~Wilfred Owen 1893-1918~
...a great poem. There are no real winners in a war. The dead and alive share the same freedom. Freedom from this wretched existance for the dead, and freedom from killing others for the alive. Why do we fight for dirt when we have a whole world of it? Why do we fight for religion, when we cant hold it in our bare hands? Why fight for pride when we cant bring it to the next life?
-2004 In remembrance. Ghost Particle-