They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them.
Why are they selling poppies, Mummy? Selling poppies in town today. The poppies, child, are flowers of love. For the men who marched away. But why have they chosen a poppy, Mummy? Why not a beautiful rose? Because my child, men fought and died In the fields where the poppies grow. But why are the poppies so red, Mummy? Why are the poppies so red? Red is the colour of blood, my child. The blood that our soldiers shed. The heart of the poppy is black, Mummy. Why does it have to be black? Black, my child, is the symbol of grief. For the men who never came back. But why, Mummy are you crying so? Your tears are giving you pain. My tears are my fears for you my child. For the world is forgetting
Half Nelson, thanks for a lovely poem. My Dad was a Dunkirk Veteran, at his funeral I was surprised to be approached by two Vets who had attended without me knowing. We had a spirit in those days which we have since lost, and replaced with looting etc from a minority. We bow to a bunch of foreigners about displaying the poppy, and allow Brussels to tell us what we can do, very sad days.
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men 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 Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!---An ecstasy of fumbling, 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 panes and thick green light, As under a green 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 the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud 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.
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men 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 Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!---An ecstasy of fumbling, 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 panes and thick green light, As under a green 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 the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud 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.
As moving today as when I first heard this at school.
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men 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 Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!---An ecstasy of fumbling, 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 panes and thick green light, As under a green 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 the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud 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.
As moving today as when I first heard this at school.
Just the quote I am reading out at a school church rememberance service this morning.
I hope it has the same lasting effect as it did for you Mr OneL.
When I just saw this thread it was at 11 comments 11 new. I wanted to share this but I had to wait until someone else had posted, silly I know but out of respect I couldn't post until it had gone. I just sat updating in silence.
Just did my silence in the street. Amazed how many people on mobile phones and generally chatting away. 2 minutes of your day isn't a lot to ask is it.
Our office fell silent apart from a bastard husband & wife team who acknowledged the 2 minutes by whispering to each other FFS 2 minutes out of your so important lives ....MAKES ME SICK wanted to say something but would only lead to more aggravation
Comments
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
Selling poppies in town today.
The poppies, child, are flowers of love.
For the men who marched away.
But why have they chosen a poppy, Mummy?
Why not a beautiful rose?
Because my child, men fought and died
In the fields where the poppies grow.
But why are the poppies so red, Mummy?
Why are the poppies so red?
Red is the colour of blood, my child.
The blood that our soldiers shed.
The heart of the poppy is black, Mummy.
Why does it have to be black?
Black, my child, is the symbol of grief.
For the men who never came back.
But why, Mummy are you crying so?
Your tears are giving you pain.
My tears are my fears for you my child.
For the world is forgetting
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men 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 Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!---An ecstasy of fumbling,
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 panes and thick green light,
As under a green 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 the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
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.
RIP The fallen and Sittingbournes own Soldier Carl Davies who passed away last night aged 31 RIP pal.
My minutes silence today is for you and all the other unsung Heroes
Why do you still march old man,with medals on your chest?
I'll tell you why I march young man, with medals on myWhy do you still grieve old man,for those friends you laid to rest?
Why do your eyes gleam old man,when you hear those bugles blow?
Tell me why you cry old man, about those days so long ago.
chest
I'll tell you why I grieve young man, for those I laid to rest,
Through misty fields of gossamer silk come visions of distant times,
When boys of tender age lost lives, and all their mothers pined;
We buried them in a blanket shroud, their young flesh scorched and blackened,
A communal grave newly gouged in blood stained gorse and bracken,
And you ask me why I march young man, I march to remind you all,
That but for those apple-blossom youths, you'd never have known freedom
at all.
-Never Forget-
Just the quote I am reading out at a school church rememberance service this morning.
I hope it has the same lasting effect as it did for you Mr OneL.
When I just saw this thread it was at 11 comments 11 new. I wanted to share this but I had to wait until someone else had posted, silly I know but out of respect I couldn't post until it had gone. I just sat updating in silence.
R.I.P.
R.I.P.
Lest we forget.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Brings a tear to the eye.
R.I.P
RIP
R.I.P.
CAFCofficial
Charlton Athletic FC
Dead quiet here.
Makes you so proud!
I'm not a member of the silence / poppies are compulsory school as the Wars were allegedly for freedom.
That said one hopes that people will respect it, particularly government departments, hence my annoyance with HMRC telephoning at 10:59 am.
I didn't take the call.
Just because someone is not wearing a poppy does not mean that they don't give a rats arse.
Bloke in my office wearing a poppy but happy to chat and joke on the phone during the two minutes silence.