Tuesday, 29 June 2004


If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
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

From 'Dulce et decorum est' by Wilfred Owen

(The same old lies, the same ever-new suffering. How to differentiate amongst such deadly dark shades of grey as the balance of evils?)

No comments: