Wilfred Owen, 1893-1918

[gillo]

Today is the centenary of the death of he young poet, Wilfred Owen. ONE WEEK before the Armistice he was shot by a sniper.

Turkey had surrendered. The War was clearly coming to an end. But still the young men were sent out to kill and be killed. The last man to die lived after the Eleventh Hour, about an hour and a half. His general wanted a bit more glory.

So much waste. So much futility.

Anthem for Doomed Youth
By Wilfred 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.

We will remember them. We must never forget, or allow our children and grandchildren to forget, the horror of war. And the pity of it.