I am sat in front of my keyboard,
My fingers trembling,
No, not from nerves,
But from abject anger.
At eleven o'clock,
On this eleventh day,
Of this eleventh month,
This nation, or, at least most of it,
Will spend a mere two minutes,
In silence.
The idea is to remember
Those that have fallen in war
Over the last century.
The first young men
Left for a magnificent adventure,
They would be home for Christmas,
Once the Flanders mud
Had feasted on their blood,
Those that came after, the nation
Ripped from their families
By force,
They knew that this was no adventure.
If they fled
From german lead,
British lead was their reward.
So, when we proudly talk of sacrifice,
Let us remember,
Sacrifice indicates choice,
What choice had they?
When some members
Of our esteemed Royal Family,
Don uniforms they have not earned,
The bile rises in my throat.
Our fat politicians
Are presently trying to find ways
Of sending more young men to their death,
Without our agreement.
I, also, will remain silent,
For these two minutes,
My keyboard will be still,
While I share in the shame of humanity.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Owain Glyn
