remembrance

November is a time of remembrance, for Europe at large as well as for me personally. In November both my brother and my father died, and of course, on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month we remember those who died in wars that were meant to change the world forever.

I recently drove accross France to Germany, and on that trek along the pristine French Motorways, came upon frequent reminders of those conflicts as whe whizzed through the locations of ancient battles and historic sites that are forever linked with the tragic deaths of countless men and women. There is something very moving about the vast plots filled with identical graves, filled with the remains of persons mutilated and butchered in the name of ........ what exactly? Wars to end wars? It doesn't seem to work does it? Looking at the sheer numbers of dead, makes one grateful; to them for their sacrifice, though I guess many must have not been there through any choice, and grateful that I will never have to kill another human being in the name of someone else.

How many lies were told to those sent to die?

DULCE ET DECORUM EST

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 tired, outstripped Five-Nines 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 flound'ring 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 ardent14 for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.