longer.blue

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs Obscene as cancer, 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: Dolce et decorum est Pro patria mori —Wilfred Owen, “Dulce et Decorum Est” (1920)