this diary is dedicated to all who suffer because of war

we love and support our troops, just as we love and support the Iraqi people – without exception, or precondition, or judgment.

two images and poem below the fold

Peggy Crocker, center, is consoled by Brig. Gen. Charles Anderson at the funeral of her son, Army Cpl. Carl W. Johnson II of Philadelphia, during funeral services at Arlington National Cemetery in Arlington, Va., Friday, Oct. 27, 2006. Cpl. Johnson was killed in action in Mosul, Iraq by an improvised exploding device.
(AP Photo/Chris Greenberg)

A man cries as the body of his policeman brother is placed in a coffin outside a hospital morgue in Baquba, 65 km (40 miles) northeast of Baghdad, October 26, 2006. Six policemen were killed while 10 others were wounded after gunmen attacked an Iraqi special police force station near Baquba, police said.
REUTERS/Helmiy al-Azawi (IRAQ)

by Joachim du Bellay

I do not write of love: I am no lover.
I do not write of beauty: I have no woman.
I do not write of gentleness but the human
rudeness I see. And my pleasures are all over,
so I do not try to write of pleasure, but only
misery. Favors? No, I am on my own.
I do not write of riches: I have none.
Or of life at court, when I’m far from it and lonely.

I do not write of health, for I’m often ill.
I cannot write of France from a Roman hill.
Or honor? I see so little of that about.
I cannot write of friendship but only pretence.
I will not write of virtue, here in its absence.
Or knowledge or faith, in ignorance and doubt.

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