The Country They Died For

A reminder of the sacrifice our soldiers made.

 

12 comments

  1. You know what’s as bad? The picture below it of the white volunteer picking the crosses up. Confused, naïve white people who think this is a solemn, appropriate remembrance despite the fact it’s on a ghetto/barrio beach. Nobody allows themselves to remark on the obvious anachronism: it’s not the vibrancy’s heritage, so they don’t give a shit. Adding insult to injury, there’s the mystery-meat, schizophrenic bystander, his scrambled brain somehow managing to tell him to put on the pseudo-uniformed outfit and blurt something out to the reporter.

    White people stuck in these vibrant colonies remind me of the Byzantines, still thinking of their walled city and its few islands as the Roman Empire, and going to their pointless jobs in the bureaucracy while the Ottoman army pitches tents in their very sight.

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  2. The sad photo is the white volunteer picking up the crosses. Naïve, foolish people who think planting these memorials on a ghetto/barrio beach will be a solemn, appropriate remembrance. Nobody allows themselves to recognize the obvious anachronism: it’s not the vibrancy’s heritage, so they don’t give a shit. Adding insult to injury, the schizophrenic mystery meat dressed in the pseudo-uniform, whose scrambled brain managed to get him there and blurting out something to the reporter.

    Whites in the middle of these areas remind me of the Byzantines, still thinking of their walled city and a few tiny islands as the Roman Empire and going to their pointless jobs in the bureaucracy while the Ottomans pitched tents within their very sight.

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  3. In Flanders fields the poppies blow
    Between the crosses, row on row,
    That mark our place; and in the sky
    The larks, still bravely singing, fly
    Scarce heard amid the guns below.

    We are the Dead. Short days ago
    We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
    Loved and were loved, and now we lie
    In Flanders fields.

    Take up our quarrel with the foe:
    To you from failing hands we throw
    The torch; be yours to hold it high.
    If ye break faith with us who die
    We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
    In Flanders fields.

    In Flanders Fields by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae

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