Based on reading the news lately, I felt compelled to include my dad's poem about war again!!
Piece written by my Dad and found with his memoir as a loose sheet of paper. I bolded To Each His Own which was the title of my Dad's memoir. Also, he talks of spectres, past and present - our family fought the Germans in WWI as well as WWII so he may be referring to that part of our family history!
Glory To War
To Each His Own, evolves a picture of an adverse assembly of spectres, past and present, sitting on a multitude of battle ready horses with mad, drunken, hysterical staring eyes; guided firmly in the saddle by a terrible ghost of grim corrupt dignitaries cloaked in all kinds of beautiful apparel of stupendous splendour, rich ornaments, tiaras, uniforms and medallions. Covered by an eerie aura of bad stormy weather, darkening the pomp and glamour spectacle galore; wallowing in unsurpassed greediness with the sweet, rotten stench of death ever present around.
Passing by like a macabre parade; trampling casually on the mutilated corpses of long suffering mankind, foe and friend alike.
Little voices crying from beneath the holocaust, faintly heard, by the stunned helpless survivors.
We are next ...
Tell the world, please!
Written by: Louis Emanuel Fynaut
Piece written by my Dad and found with his memoir as a loose sheet of paper. I bolded To Each His Own which was the title of my Dad's memoir. Also, he talks of spectres, past and present - our family fought the Germans in WWI as well as WWII so he may be referring to that part of our family history!
Glory To War
To Each His Own, evolves a picture of an adverse assembly of spectres, past and present, sitting on a multitude of battle ready horses with mad, drunken, hysterical staring eyes; guided firmly in the saddle by a terrible ghost of grim corrupt dignitaries cloaked in all kinds of beautiful apparel of stupendous splendour, rich ornaments, tiaras, uniforms and medallions. Covered by an eerie aura of bad stormy weather, darkening the pomp and glamour spectacle galore; wallowing in unsurpassed greediness with the sweet, rotten stench of death ever present around.
Passing by like a macabre parade; trampling casually on the mutilated corpses of long suffering mankind, foe and friend alike.
Little voices crying from beneath the holocaust, faintly heard, by the stunned helpless survivors.
We are next ...
Tell the world, please!
Written by: Louis Emanuel Fynaut
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