Wilfred Owen showed me,
with evidence,
what I thought couldn't be, was,
what I thought is, isn't
and that there's even something in that.
What's more, he showed me
I would never get a hand
without complete empathy,
going through the exact extremes
that had led him to his revealing.
I thought he was mad
and, 'There is madness in sharing feeling.'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
How despite all that he and all the other war poets endured could their humanity and empathy prevail. They witnessed the beginning of dehumanized industrial war and with it god, but they clung to the essence of humanity. How close must that have been to being extinguished?