War is a nasty, dirty business that most like to remember only in the one-day-a-year recognition of the fallen. We weep if we have any sensitivity. We look back to our heroic fathers, these courageous, stoic men and bless them, then go about our daily business incarcerating, demeaning, dismissing their sons.
I weep on days like this, not just for the brave, the bold, the ones who endured, but for the society that takes their toil and sacrifice for granted and dismembers the freedoms they fought so hard for.
Lest we forget. We do so easily. But...
SAY not the struggle naught availeth,
The labour and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been they remain.
If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
It may be, in yon smoke conceal'd,
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,
And, but for you, possess the field.
For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the Main.
And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light;
In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly!
But westward, look, the land is bright!