11-11-2001

It's Remembrance day, Folks!

I've used this poem before, but I think that it is fitting for the day.

Anthem for doomed youth Jim Morrison
Disclaimers: Don't own GW, nor the Poem.
Warnings: ANGST.
Pairings: 1+2

Notes: this poem was written by Wilfrid Owen, who died shortly before the Armistice was called. Poppies are used to symbolize the fallen, in honor of John Macrae's poem "In Flander's field."

 

"Anthem for Doomed Youth" Duo said in a hushed voice as we stood huddled in the back of the crowd, watching as children came and placed poppies nad wreaths on the graves of fallen soldiers.

He shivered and stood closer to me. I looked over and saw the bright red poppy on his black coat and shuddered at how incongrously bright and cheerful it was against his coat.

"What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
-Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons."

In my mind's eye, I saw a battlefield. Men struggling and running over harsh terrain, ducking bullets and avoiding barbed wire.

Men who were probably the same age as we had been when we fought first Oz and White Fang, then Mariemaia's army.

Could we really be called men? We were only children, I realize. Children with no past and very possibly, no future.

"No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,-
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires."

Duo is watching as a little girl puts down a bunch of poppies on one of the graves.

"Oh hell." He whispers softly before he turns away. I look closely and see that it is Mariemaia and that the grave is Treize's.

I can feel Duo trembling and I pull him close to me.

"What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds."

There is nothing really left to say for all of us, the survivors and the ones in the graves.

Our requiem was penned by this poet long ago.

We can't cry anymore. We are lost.

War has always doomed us.

Hopefully, we will be the last to be so.

 

Finis.