*Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
[…]
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 gas-shells dropping softly behind. *
*Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!-An ecstasy of fumbling
[…]
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
[…]
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. *
[…]
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
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.
Wilfred Owen
La poésie, un moyen touchant et percutant de s’élever contre la connerie humaine, la violence et la guerre…
N.B. Il faut lire le très beau, mais éprouvant et douloureux, All Quiet on the Western Front (À l’Ouest rien de nouveau) d’Erich Maria Remarque.
