quinta-feira, 2 de junho de 2016

Eu tinha a grande saúde de não perceber coisa / nenhuma

Crocheted Wire Anatomy, Anne Mondo

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
— Wilfred Owen, Dulce et Decorum Est, 1918

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