11/11

[altariel]

For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something had been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled,
Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.

From Strange Meeting by Wilfred Owen

And do read the poems posted by the_wild_iris.

Comments

[hardrada.livejournal.com]

I saw his round mouth's crimson deepen as it fell
Like a Sun, in his last deep hour.
Watched the magnificent recession of farewell,
Clouding, half gleam, half glower,
And a last splendour burn the Heaven of his cheek,
And in his eyes
The cold stars lighting, very old and bleak
In different skies.