lirik lagu ghizela rowe - arthur graeme west - god how i hate you
god! how i hate you, you young cheerful men
whose pious poetry blossoms on your graves
as soon as you are in them, nurtured up
by the salt of your corruption, and the tears
of mothers, local vicars, college deans
and flanked by prefaces and photographs
from all you minor poet friends—the fools—
who paint their sentimental elegies
where sure, no angel treads; and, living, share
the dead’s brief immortality
oh christ!
to think that one could spread the ductile wax
of his fluid youth to oxford’s glowing fires
and take her seal so ill! hark how one chants—
“oh happy to have lived these epic days”—
“these epic days”! and he’d been to france
and seen the trenches, glimpsed the huddled dead
in the periscope, hung in the rusting wire:
chobed by their sickley fœtor, day and night
blown down his throat: stumbled through ruined hearths
proved all that muddy brown monotony
where blood’s the only coloured thing. perhaps
had seen a man k!lled, a sentry shot at night
hunched as he fell, his feet on the firing~step
his neck against the back slope of the trench
and the rest doubled up between, his head
smashed like and egg~sh~ll, and the warm grey brain
spattered all bl~~dy on the parados:
had flashed a torch on his face, and known his friend
shot, breathing hardly, in ten minutes—gone!
yet still god’s in his heaven, all is right
in the best possible of worlds. the woe
even his scaled eyes must see, is partial, only
a seeming woe, we cannot understand
god loves us, god looks down on this our strife
and smiles in pity, blows a pipe at times
and calls some warriors home. we do not die
god would not let us, he is too “intense,”
too “passionate,” a whole day sorrows he
because a grass~blade dies. how rare life is!
on earth, the love and fellowship of men
men sternly banded: banded for what end?
banded to maim and k!ll their fellow men—
for even huns are men. in heaven above
a genial umpire, a good judge of sport
won’t let us hurt each other! let’s rejoice
god keeps us faithful, pens us still in fold
ah, what a faith is ours (almost, it seems
large as a mustard~seed)—we trust and trust
nothing can shake us! ah, how good god is
to suffer us to be born just now, when youth
that else would rust, can slake his blade in gore
where very god himself does seem to walk
the bl~~dy fields of flanders he so loves!
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