483
Dulce et Decorum est
Dalek348
::Bent double, like old beggars under sacks ::Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through the sludge ::Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs ::And towards our distant rest began to trudge ::Dwarves 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 tired, outstripped watchtowers that dropped behind. ::Fire, fire! - An ecstacy of fumblimg ::Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; ::But someone still was yelling out and stumbling, ::And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime :: Dim, through the misty fog and thick red embers As under a ruby 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 his froth-corrupted lungs, ::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. ::  ::A battered old journal scavenged from an ancient war-torn battlefield. ::This extract from a journal expresses this soldier's thoughts.