HOW DOES IT FEEL?

YOU INFLICTED
YOU DETERMINED
YOU CREATED
YOU ORDERED
IT WAS YOUR DECISION TO HAVE THOSE YOUNG BOYS SLAUGHTERED

How Does It Feel (To Be The Mother of 1000 Dead)?
The Immortal Death
Don't Tell Me You Care

PRAISE AND CONTROVERSY IN THE PRESS AND FROM MEMBERS OF PARLIMENT...

Lyrics to
HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE THE MOTHER OF 1000 DEAD?

Intro. When you woke this morning you looked so rocky-eyed, blue
and white normally, but strange ringed like that in black. It doesn't
get much better, your voice can get just tipped up shouting in vain.
Maybe someone hears what you say, but you're still on your own at
night. You've got to make such a noise to understand the silence.
Screaming like a jackass, ringing ears so you can't hear the silence
even when it's there -- like the wind seen from the window;
seeing it, but not being touched by it.

We never asked for war, nor in the innocence of our birth were
we aware of it. We never asked for war, nor in the struggle to realisation
did we feel there was a need for it. We never asked for war,
nor in the joyful colours of our childhood were we conscious of its
darkness.

HOW DOES IT FEEL?
Chorus. How does it feel to be the mother of a thousand dead?
Young boys rest now, cold graves in cold earth.
How does it feel to be the mother of a thousand dead?
Sunken eyes, lost now; empty sockets in futile death.

Verse One. Your arrogance has gutted these bodies of life,
your deceit fooled them that it was worth the sacrifice.
Your lies persuaded people to accept the wasted blood,
your filthy pride cleansed you of the doubt you should have had.
You smile in the face of death because you're so proud and vain,
your cruel inhumanity stops you from realising the pain that you inflicted,
you determined, you created, you ordered -
it was your decision to have those young boys slaughtered.

Verse Two. You never wanted peace or solution,
from the start you lusted after war and destruction.
Your blood-soaked reason ruled out other choices,
your mockery gagged more moderate voices.
So keen to play your bloody part,
so impatient that your war be fought.
Iron Lady with your stone heart so eager that the lesson be taught
that you inflicted, you determined, you created, you ordered -
it was your decision to have those young boys slaughtered.
Chorus.
Verse Three. Throughout our history you and your kind have stolen
the young bodies of the living to be twisted and torn in filthy war.
What right have you to defile those births?
What right have you to devour that flesh?
What right to spit on the hope with the gory madness that you inflicted,
you determined, you created, you ordered -
it was your decision to have those young boys slaughtered.
Chorus.
Verse Four. You accuse us of disrespect for the dead,
but it was you who slaughtered out of national pride.
Just how much did you care?
What respect did you have as you sent those bodies to their communal grave?
You buried them rough-handed, they'd given you their all,
that once living flesh defiled in the hell that you inflicted,
you determined, you created, you ordered -
it was your decision to have those young boys slaughtered.

Verse Five. You use those deaths to achieve your ends still,
using the corpses as a moral blackmail.
You say, "Think of what those young men gave,"
as you try to bind us in your living death,
yet we do think of them, ice-cold and silenced in the snow covered moorlands,
stopped by the violence that
you inflicted,
you determined,
you created,
you ordered -
it was YOUR decision to have those young boys slaughtered.

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, -
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing down of blinds.

Wilfred Owen, 1918

". . . it is an abuse of language to say that our poor soldiers, slaughtered at the front, died a "heroic death". That is sentimentality. Of course the soldiers who died in the war are worthy of our deepest sympathy. Many of them did great things and suffered greatly, and in the end they paid with their lives. But that does not make them "heroes". The common soldier, at whom an officer bellows as he would a dog, is not suddenly transformed into a hero by the bullet that kills him. To suppose that there can be millions of "heroes" is in itself an absurdity.
The obedient well-behaved citizen who does his/her duty is a "hero". Only an individual who has fashioned his/her "self-will", their noble, natural inner law, into their destiny can be a hero.'

Herman Hesse. If The War Goes On. 1919