The Next War
War's a joke for me and you,
Wile we know such dreams are true.
- Siegfried Sassoon
Out there, we've walked quite friendly up to Death,-
Sat down and eaten with him, cool and bland,-
Pardoned his spilling mess-tins in our hand.
We've sniffed the green thick odour of his breath,-
Our eyes wept, but our courage didn't writhe.
He's spat at us with bullets and he's coughed
Shrapnel. We chorussed when he sang aloft,
We whistled while he shaved us with his scythe.
Oh, Death was never enemy of ours!
We laughed at him, we leagued with him, old chum.
No soldier's paid to kick against His powers.
We laughed, -knowing that better men would come,
And greater wars: when each proud fighter brags
He wars on Death, for lives; not men, for flags.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (The Next War by Wilfred Owen )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(13 September 1916 – 23 November 1990)
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- A Homage To The Freedom Fighters Of India, Raja Basu
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- If, Rudyard Kipling
- Daffodils, William Wordsworth
- Annabel Lee, Edgar Allan Poe
- Dreams, Langston Hughes
- Fire and Ice, Robert Frost
- I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, Maya Angelou
- A Red, Red Rose, Robert Burns