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Being Berber
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Anthem
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of their guns.
Only the stuttering fiery rapid rattle,
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells; Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes,
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
Each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
The shrill demented choirs of wailing shells.
Bugles calling from their sad shires.
(Adapted from 'Anthem for Doomed Youth.' Wilfred Owen: The War Poems. Chatto & Windus, 1994. ed. Jon Stallworthy)
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