In Flanders Fields
John McCrae, May 1915 In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields. Ways of War
BANG! BANG! Sounds the guns at war, Soldiers diving for cover. Dashing across the unstable ground, Unknowing which step and which breath will be their last. Down in the trenches, bunking with the mud and decaying bodies of their team, where appears to be safest, A man yells, "GAS, GAS!" Each young man fumbles for their mask. Praying and hoping it won't be too late. The war at a settle, the first is born from the trenches. Filing out, heads bowed in deep sorrow. Weaving their way through the thousands of dead soldiers they may have known as friends. Racing over to their mate suffering and groaning in pain. Laying him on the stretcher and marching back to the beat of his coughs. Each soldier supporting their mate, "you will pull through, it's going to be alright", But the sadness comes over them, when deep down they know, this mans a goner. What remains of the finest army of men sent, return to their loved ones, Pride in themselves and deep sadness of those close they lost. Scarred they are, both physically and mentally. The many nights they have restless from the thought of death, and the unpleasant memories from war. The many men who died for their country, are remembered and never forgotten. |
Wilfred Owen
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 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. How to Die
Siegfried Sassoon Dark clouds are smouldering into red While down the craters morning burns. The dying soldier shifts his head To watch the glory that returns; He lifts his fingers toward the skies Where holy brightness breaks in flame; Radiance reflected in his eyes, And on his lips a whispered name. You’d think, to hear some people talk, That lads go West with sobs and curses, And sullen faces white as chalk, Hankering for wreaths and tombs and hearses. But they’ve been taught the way to do it Like Christian soldiers; not with haste And shuddering groans; but passing through it With due regard for decent taste. |