I’m horribly late on this.  But for our Veterans and fallen ones, better words than I could muster from Wilford Owen.

    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 goodbyes. 
    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.
    September – October, 1917

About theragingcelt

Actor/Writer/Homegrown Pundit/Cranky Progressive/Sometimes Filmmaker.
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