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Now anyone who knows me should know I’m all for religious freedoms, so what I am about to say in a moment has NOTHING to do with the fact it’s to do with Islam, I wouldn’t even feel the need to state this at the start of the post, had religion not caused so much hate and trouble that people might misconstrue what I say just because I’m not part of that religion.
I’m alright with rituals, all religions have them. Mine has a ritual for nearly every event possible, so I’m actually rather fond of them. Animal sacrifice I have a few issues with, even if they do eat it/send it to be eaten. I’m watching a documentary on the pilgrimage to Mecca, the one Muslims take every year (I don’t mean they all take it every year. Talk about traffic congestion.) and they slaughter uh one sheep per person or a camel per seven people… not only is it extremely gross to watch a sheep get its throat slit but its a little disconcerting. The meat does go to poor countries to feed the poor, which is good, but it was a little cruel, they made us watch it drown in its own blood. Though I know slaughter houses are sometimes worse I still don’t fancy it much. Ah well, there are worse things then death…
Today is remembrance day and in honour of that I present that which I do on such occasions, a minutes silence and this;
The Ode
The Ode comes from For the Fallen, a poem by the English poet and writer Laurence Binyon and was published in London in the Winnowing Fan; Poems of the Great War in 1914. The verse, which became the League Ode was already used in association with commemoration services in Australia in 1921.
FOR THE FALLEN
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children
England mourns for her dead across the sea,
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eyes, steady and aglow,
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again,
They sit no more at familiar tables of home,
They have no lot in our labour of the daytime,
They sleep beyond England’s foam.
But where our desires and hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the night.
As the stars shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
