You've been away, a while
I didn't miss you
You promised to stay
But I didn't kiss you
You held my hand
and my neck too
Hello again, you return every while
Why do you?
After all the lows
You've put me through
You still think you'll win
You have no clue!
I listen to my heart
But to my mind too
I listen to my soul
To ME, not to you
He sleeps. An enigma, his life bereft -
He lived then died once his angel had left.
It happened as simply as anything might,
As from day there follows the coming of night.
I'm used to being loved and ignored
But I never experienced being hated
Perhaps you receive what you give
Hating someone is out of my league
'Cos I believe respect must live
But then again
No one can escape judgment from other people
And that's (not) okay
People will jugde and hurt you,
Over and over again
You'll be the gist of their fun
Their game made of insecurities,
lack of knowledge,
a bottle of pride,
and an empty box of respect.
Never give in.
Let them play their game
But never ever play with them.
Kill them with silence.
And by that;
You will always be the victor.
The wind is blowing tirelessly,
Delicate flowers are falling,
Branches are all shaking vigorously,
And I learn something from them,
No matter how hard the wind may blow,
They only move,
They don't change their shapes and colours,
The flowers may fall but at some point they allow the same wind to blow them into the sky and make them fly.
So I learn that hard situations shouldn't change who we are,
We only need to adjust our attitudes,
Struggles are there to make you a victor,
Like the flower being made to fly by what brought it down,
You let your struggles elevate you.
Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où blanchit la campagne,
Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m’attends.
J’irai par la forêt, j’irai par la montagne.
Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.
Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées,
Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit,
Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées,
Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit.
Je ne regarderai ni l’or du soir qui tombe,
Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur,
Et quand j’arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe
Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur.
Skin as pale as lilies,
now livid with interrupted bloom.
Bruises as dark as that Irish lake,
five of them, of a brutish nightshade hue.
Body as limp as the towel they used to rub you warm to no avail,
dotted over with dirt, your shirt torn through.
Eyes as vacant as the echo in a tomb,
once blue before, now glazed over with vitreous dew.
Oh Clerval, how I have forsaken you.
(Inspired by my great grandfather)
Capt: Albert Victor Champion RHA
Children of the Somme, men of mud and water
killed by lead and steel, for them no last supper
no last meal. Children of the Somme, consumed
by mud and water, sent in there thousands
to their slaughter.
Nerves that were shattered,breath that was shallow
felled in fields that were lifeless and fallow.
Hearts that were pounding, bodies that trembled
as in the trenches men assembled.
like an order from god they awaited there place,
to go over the top and stare death in the face.
Men of all nations men of all ages; condemned
to there death and the history books pages.
Lest we forget..................... Remember them.