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1914 - 18

uploaded: Sat, Nov 10, 2018 @ 2:04 AM

by	Radioontheshelf
Featuring	Digicoustical,ghosts
length	5:53
Recommends	Recommends (7)

Tomorrow, Sunday, we commemorate the 100th anniversary of the end of the First World War.
A million British soldiers died and throughout Europe the total lives lost was over 10 million. All this happening in 4 horrendous years only ceasing at 11.ooam on the 11th of November 1918. A few days before the ending of hostilities the English poet Wilfred Owen was killed at the age of 25. This piece is based on his wonderfully evocative poem “Strange meeting”

We had escaped the trenches and dusted off our failure and headed for the future together arm in arm
You with your regrets and I with my victory yet both of us in tatters our bodies wrecked and torn
We had believed the stories that all our generals told us they’d promised us Valhalla they said it was our due
But the barbed wire ripped us it gave us no salvation and the bullets stripped our virtue left us dying on the ground
Then I heard a cry a scream that chilled my future I looked to see who had made it whose life was at an end
Then I realised that the voice that I was hearing had come from my own body as I laid there on the ground

In the mud we laid together wrapped in each others arms and the blood that left our bodies joined us in a river of red
Above us in the cold air we heard our comrades laughing for they had made it back to safety ready to fight again
They knew that we were missing along with many others the night air was vibrating with the cries of dying men
Then the last journey started and we gathered up our memories raised our shattered bodies and walked towards the light
You shared my journey we were each others heroes we only had each other but in that we rejoiced
We were our countries martyrs we gave our bodies freely we were just two of many who paid the highest price

In the fields of France the crosses stand reminders of our journey from British towns and villages to free the rights of men
And though we knew our chances of surviving mans atrocities were small and not worth having
We still packed them in our bags
And the poppies that are swaying in the breeze that gently blows
Tell the story of the men who never came home