I stood in the flag-decked cheering crowd
Where all but I were gay,
And gazing on their extesy,
My heart shrank in dismay.
For theirs was the joy of the 'little folk'
The cruel glee of the weak,
Who, banded together, have slain the strong
Which none alone dared seek.
The Bosch we know was a hideous beast
Beyond our era's ban,
But soldiers still must honor the Hun
As a mighty fighting man.
The vice he had was strong and real
Of virtue he had none,
Yet he fought the world remorselessly
And very nearly won…
And looking forward I could see
Like a festering sewer;
Full of the fecal Pacifists
Which peace makes us endure….
None of the hold and blatant sin
The disregard of pain,
The glorious deeds of sacrefice
which follow in wars train.
Instead of these the little lives
Will blossom as before,
Pale bloom of creatures all too weak
To hear the light of war.
While we whose spirits wider range
Can grasp the joys of strife,
Will moulder in the virtuous vice
Of futile peaceful life.
We can but hope that e're we drown
'Neath treacle floods of grace,
The tuneless horns of mighty, Mars
Once more shall rouse the Race
When such times come, Oh! God of War
Grant that we pass midst strife,
Knowing once more the whitehot joy
Of taking human life.
Then pass in peace, blood-glutted Bosch
And when we too shall fall,
We'll clasp in yours our gory hands
In High Valhallas' Hall.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem