quinta-feira, outubro 04, 2007
bjartur of summerhouses
Ten million men and a half, I see,
Were slaughtered in fun in that maniacs' spree.
By now they're probably all in hell,
But I mourn them not. God-speed. Farewell.
There was, however, another war,
Waged near a rock in the blind days of yore,
And that was fought over one sweet flower
That was torn away in disastrous hour.
And that's why I'm lately so moody grown
And pride myself little on what I own.
For what are riches and houses and power,
If in that house blooms no lovely flower?