Antwerp
Flames through the black smoke shooting — flames to the skies aflame!
Hatred and crime that are nameless, and murder without a name!
The deeds of a death-doomed nation, and the fury of guilt and shame,
And the flames die down in the morning and the black smoke smothers the flame.
Blue smoke from the embers curling, and the morning is fresh and fair;
And the dead and the charred and the mangled, and the wounded are everywhere.
And out on the paths of the fleeing, where the remnants are scattered like chaff,
The terrible silence of children, and a soldier's hysterical laugh.
War against women and children — war against Progress and Peace!
War against all things and nothing — when shall Insanity cease?
Only by pride and ambition can such an Inferno be built,
Maddened conceit and ambition, and the fear and the fury of Guilt.
God's own sky is above us, and God's own fleecy cloud,
Like a baby's christening mantle, or an earthly angel's shroud;
And God's own stars and planets, and the evening star that beams,
By God's own moon, at its fairest, reflected in God's own streams.
Death to a peaceful nation! Chaos to town and farm
Of a kindly and friendly people, who never did nation harm.
Death to the young folk helpless, to the old folk scant of breath;
To the babies in their cradles, says the voice of the Madman — Death!
But we press on — the Avengers — each one to play his part,
With murder black in our memory, and murder in every heart.
Each one sure and determined to win to his goal at length,
For we war not on peaceful burghers, but on a Devil of strength.
There's a vision of towns rebuilded, or fairer towns in their stead,
And flourishing fields and gardens that are waving above the dead.
There's a vision of softened sorrow, and the pride that came after the fall,
In the Monuments from All Nations to the Bravest Nation of All.
There's a vision of one lone Island — known in the books of men,
Where there'll be no warship guarding (for none shall be needed then ).
Down in the milder Atlantic, in days while the future grows fair —
'Tis a vision of St Helena, and a madman is gibbering there.
Hatred and crime that are nameless, and murder without a name!
The deeds of a death-doomed nation, and the fury of guilt and shame,
And the flames die down in the morning and the black smoke smothers the flame.
Blue smoke from the embers curling, and the morning is fresh and fair;
And the dead and the charred and the mangled, and the wounded are everywhere.
And out on the paths of the fleeing, where the remnants are scattered like chaff,
The terrible silence of children, and a soldier's hysterical laugh.
War against women and children — war against Progress and Peace!
War against all things and nothing — when shall Insanity cease?
Only by pride and ambition can such an Inferno be built,
Maddened conceit and ambition, and the fear and the fury of Guilt.
God's own sky is above us, and God's own fleecy cloud,
Like a baby's christening mantle, or an earthly angel's shroud;
And God's own stars and planets, and the evening star that beams,
By God's own moon, at its fairest, reflected in God's own streams.
Death to a peaceful nation! Chaos to town and farm
Of a kindly and friendly people, who never did nation harm.
Death to the young folk helpless, to the old folk scant of breath;
To the babies in their cradles, says the voice of the Madman — Death!
But we press on — the Avengers — each one to play his part,
With murder black in our memory, and murder in every heart.
Each one sure and determined to win to his goal at length,
For we war not on peaceful burghers, but on a Devil of strength.
There's a vision of towns rebuilded, or fairer towns in their stead,
And flourishing fields and gardens that are waving above the dead.
There's a vision of softened sorrow, and the pride that came after the fall,
In the Monuments from All Nations to the Bravest Nation of All.
There's a vision of one lone Island — known in the books of men,
Where there'll be no warship guarding (for none shall be needed then ).
Down in the milder Atlantic, in days while the future grows fair —
'Tis a vision of St Helena, and a madman is gibbering there.
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