TIME TO REFLECT
As we commemorate the end of the First World War, we should remember the human folly that produced it. Alliances were made. Animosities were manipulated. Armaments were manufactured. An archduke was murdered. Armies marched. Atrocities mounted. And morality succumbed to the absurdities of war.
In hindsight, it is easy to think that this could have been avoided. But each generation falls victim to what Wilfred Owen called “the old lie” of war and its desperate glories. Owen witnessed horror in the trenches. He wrote poetry about gas and death and the lies of war.
In one of his poems, “The End,” Owen laments the bodies of young men broken by war. They will never be renewed. The empty veins of youth will never be refilled. The voice of mother earth cries out. “My fiery heart sinks, aching,” she says. “Mine ancient scars shall not be glorified; nor my titanic tears the seas be dried.”