Friday, October 13, 2006
snow patrol
As it rolled down the mountain, the avalanche picked up speed like a marshmallow in the bottom of a mug of hot chocolate races towards your mouth. While the people of Little Snowtonville slept, their town was about to be destroyed by one of nature’s greatest disasters. And the survivors would realise that this ain’t cocoa, baby.
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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.
Ah... Wilfred Owen's 'Anthem for Doomed Youth'. How fitting. May I retort with this:
‘O Jesus Christ! I’m hit,’ he said; and died.
Whether he vainly cursed, or prayed indeed,
The Bullets chirped—’In vain! vain! vain!’
Machine-guns chuckled, ‘Tut-tut! Tut-tut!’
And the Big Gun guffawed.
Another sighed,—’O Mother, Mother! Dad!’
Then smiled, at nothing, childlike, being dead.
And the lofty Shrapnel-cloud
Leisurely gestured,—’Fool!’
And the falling splinters tittered.
‘My Love!’ one moaned. Love-languid seemed his mood,
Till, slowly lowered, his whole face kissed the mud.
And the Bayonets’ long teeth grinned;
Rabbles of Shells hooted and groaned;
And the Gas hissed.
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