Sunday, 8 November 2015

Fight To The Finish.

       Remembrance Day, when the pomp of imperialism walks the streets in all its glittering finery, when the heads of state, the purveyors of war, bow their heads as if the cared, while planning their next battle field. When will we learn, that war is their tool, their weapon of dominance. Their corridors of power are steeped in the blood of the ordinary people, sacrificed for some grand plan that only benefits the power mongers. There is no war to end wars, war breed wars. 
    As our own Prime minister stands there solemn and head bowed, what thoughts of Syria are going through his head. How many can he risk to get his moment of glory, to play the imperial  game with the big boys.
     We have been sending our young men and women to die across the globe continuously since that war to end wars, 1914/18, the blood of ordinary people has flowed in its gallons, and it will continue to do so, until we destroy this system of power that creates wealth for the few by devastating  humanity.

Fight To The Finish.

The boys came back. Bands played and flags were flying,
And Yellow-Pressmen thronged the sunlit street
To cheer the soldiers who'd refrained from dying,
and hear the music of returning feet.
'Of all the thrills and adrours War has brought,
This moment is the finest,' (So they thought.)

Snapping their bayonets on to charge the mob,
Grim Fusiliers broke ranks with glint of steel,
At last the boys had found a cushy job,

.    .    .    .    .    .    .    .

I heard the Yellow-Pressmen grunt and squeal;
And with my trusty bomber turned and went
To clear those Junkers out of Parliament.
Siegfried Sassoon.

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