DULCE ET DECORUM EST1
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!7 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.
Compare it with this poem:
Charge of the Light Brigade
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
"Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew Someone had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them, Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made! All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred.
Like many things in life, the media glorifies things that shouldn't be glorified. War. Beauty. Living life in the fast lane. And yes; even love.
Look past the cliches. Look past the poster pictures of how things should be. Look at how they ACTUALLY are. Don't forget they are trying to sell you an image, a life style, and ideal. Their versions are basically version that are beyond your reach. They make you want something that you can't attain. They make you dream a little too hard. Put a little bit too much of yourself into it.
Then things crumble around you, when you realise... it was an impossible dream after all.
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