wtorek, 8 kwietnia 2014

Face - 1st World War



‘My son lost his face
Not by losing a race
Not by telling a lie
Why did he fight?’
Sinistrous trenches will never lead the right way
Sun had choked with the beast’s fumes before it rose
Metal hail is hungry for flesh, ready to suppress the beating
Which in my ears is louder than commander’s orders
Like commandments rehashed, heads will doze
Bodies will keep the mantra of motion, competing
With their creator, who temporarily ignores dismay
 ‘My son lost his face
Not by losing a race
Not by telling a lie
Why did he fight?’
To have spat acid lungs for me seems a stroke of luck
I just looked out once to see my lucky star soaring
Only to see it plunge, as if it was telling me to duck
In vain -  cheekbones opened in warm wet welcoming
Steel kissed my eyes promising a mask worthy the opera
It’s better to lose one’s face than give up honour, is it?

Since when is slaughter honourable and proper?

‘My son lost his face
Not by losing a race
Not by telling a lie
Why did he fight?’



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