Somewhere in the fields of France, lie the bodies of many dead Americans. They lie there because we as men and particularly old men, can’t settle on peace as a way of life, a so we buried our young, and with it our hopes and dreams, under the earth in France.
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.
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.
It is not enough to bury them the young in France, but in the South Pacific, on the many atolls that dot a great ocean, amongst the forest of the Ardennes, in the sands of North Africa.
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.
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.
The old men were not satisfied with just those widows, no, he put the young hopeful bodies in the hills of Korea and the sands of Inchon, and still he could not satisfy his appetite for young blood.
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.
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.
Canadian physician and Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae
One more time, just one more, and we will see the end of war? And so we ripped our sons from the halls of academia and caste them into the jungles of Viet Nam, and drenched them in the blood of the Mekong Delta, and they flew home in body bags, some permanently buried, so still suffering the trauma of what the old men do, they are buried too.
And as we read the papers today, and we view the TV and hear the radio, and as we Google it on a website, we wonder, if this is the last war? Does Iraq spell the difference, or will it be Afghanistan? Will the old men be satisfied? Will the dead we send home be the last of it?
What is the glory of war? Why take up the quarrel? What is the price we pay when we pay it with our own blood? How is it possible to ask young men of all ages and nationalities to lay down their lives for some obscure points, that one hundred years from now will not matter, and be of little concern? But what will matter is what we have lost from all those young men. What discoveries go unfounded? What drug he may have found that could cure cancer or even the simple common cold? Will his music ever play or his hand paint the beauty that lies therein?
3 comments:
The irony is that the billions spent making war could go a long way toward resolving the issues we fight over. Of course, then there's the supreme irony...we fight and kill over who worships the true God.
It is the VETERAN, not the preacher, who has given us freedom of religion.
It is the VETERAN, not the reporter, who has given us freedom of the press.
It is the VETERAN, not the poet, who has given us freedom of speech.
It is the VETERAN, not the campus organizer, who has given us freedom to assemble.
It is the VETERAN, not the lawyer, who has given us the right to a fair trial.
It is the VETERAN, not the politician, who has given us the right to vote.
It is the VETERAN who salutes the Flag.
It is the VETERAN who serves under the Flag.
Bless them all.
Nice, Pam.
SS-I-L
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