Cross posted at DailyKos
As the politicians slowly decide whether or not we should be in Iraq, a debate they should have had before the invasion, the number of fallen soldiers creeps towards the number of people lost to the World Trade Center bombing. More evidence surfaces that indicates the decision was made without debate. Still Rumsfeld and Bush refuse to admit any mistakes were made while Rice claims ‘mea culpa’…but not really. After all how can she back down off her 2002 statement, “There simply isn’t a case that this is a peace-loving man who wants to be left alone.” That may be, but that’s hardly a case for invasion but might be grounds for impeachment. Especially, considering the incompitence and ineptitude that flourishes under a $94 billion per year price tag. And we are expected to fund and volunteer for these wars while the leaders can’t lead?
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.
GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!– An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.–
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,–
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
-Wilfred Owen
8 October 1917 – March, 1918