The blight of war hangs heavy on this ninth of April two thousand and twenty two
It’s dark and deadly pall draped leaden and deadly over one more sovereign state
Europe descends into another abyss of conflict harking back to nineteen forty two
A twisting terror in our gut, when will the human cruelty of grasping power abate
Novice soldiers, facing a despot’s war machine defend their country in the streets
Corpses, chaos, scattered on all sides no compassion, no respect an end to all joy
Skeletal buildings, shattered homes, mothers, children, stiffening in bloody sheets
Butchers in gold encrusted marble palaces for them blessed human life is but a toy
Beware your time is run because your power is nothing once you destroy this world
Your sordid legacy, an apocalyptic wasteland bereft of life in all its precious forms
Your murderous souls will choke on death sunk in the filth from which you crawled
A. McTiernan
Futility
BY WILFRED OWEN
Move him into the sun—
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields half-sown.
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.
Think how it wakes the seeds—
Woke once the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides
Full-nerved, still warm, too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
—O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth's sleep at all?
