Before the Veterans Die

Poetry of World War II by Dale R. Carver

Note: Reprinted without permission for private use only. No copyright infringement is intended.

Timed Artillery Fire at Night

The synchronized firing of guns in the rear,
then a whisper of shells overhead --
one flash to our front in the blackness:
how many, how many are dead?

The Victors

Fortune may have graced these dead.
They fell in the flush of youth.
Their flesh and minds cannot be fed
to the vultures, Time and Truth.

Dulce Est

In ancient times pro patria
it was reckoned sweet to die,
with leg-gripped charger, sword unsheathed
and banner held up high.

Then, deep chords in love-filled hearts
throbbed before the strife
and sweet the thought pro patria
to dearly sell one's life.

There are now no dreams of glory,
no cause for which to strive.
And of the two alternatives,
most choose to stay alive.

Yet dying still is much in vogue.
In fields mine-sown and muddy,
causeless men of a weary age
unthinking, die for a buddy.

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