tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310156134283777261.post4046162487714094337..comments2024-01-28T10:55:55.134+01:00Comments on Feu sur le quartier général!: 11 novembreJérôme Leroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12658941614607286284noreply@blogger.comBlogger3125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310156134283777261.post-84445950417358882832014-11-15T22:27:40.242+01:002014-11-15T22:27:40.242+01:00Pour info, on a publié votre "Je m'appell...Pour info, on a publié votre "Je m'appelle 11 novembre" le 11 novembre. Bien à vous.Nuageneufnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310156134283777261.post-71163172174789076692014-11-12T11:35:08.804+01:002014-11-12T11:35:08.804+01:00http://www.wat.tv/audio/berurier-noir-l-internatio...http://www.wat.tv/audio/berurier-noir-l-internationale-i7wk_2gc71_.htmlP'tit Quinquinnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310156134283777261.post-26250919357390465902014-11-11T11:18:22.807+01:002014-11-11T11:18:22.807+01:00Dulce Et Decorum Est
Bent double, like old beggar...Dulce Et Decorum Est<br /><br />Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,<br />Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,<br />Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs<br />And towards our distant rest began to trudge.<br />Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots<br />But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;<br />Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots<br />Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.<br /><br />GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,<br />Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;<br />But someone still was yelling out and stumbling<br />And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--<br />Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light<br />As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.<br /><br />In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,<br />He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.<br /><br />If in some smothering dreams you too could pace<br />Behind the wagon that we flung him in,<br />And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,<br />His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;<br />If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood<br />Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,<br />Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud<br />Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--<br />My friend, you would not tell with such high zest<br />To children ardent for some desperate glory,<br />The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est<br />Pro patria mori.<br /><br />(Wilfred Owen)Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com