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BROKEN HOPE - Grotesque Blessings - 1999

2009-11-09 - extension: zip - size: 89 MB

BROKEN HOPE - Grotesque Blessings - 1999

Broken Hope - Dyskografia

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Broken Hope - Grotesque Blessings 1999 320

2009-10-13 - extension: rar - size: 89 MB

Broken Hope - Grotesque Blessings 1999 320

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Broken Hope - Grotesque Blessings.rar

2008-12-06 - extension: rar - size: 45 MB

Broken Hope - Grotesque Blessings.rar

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In The Trenches (poem by me)
A poem about trench warfare in the first world war. I wrote this when I was eleven. I hate the (More) A poem about trench warfare in the first world war. I wrote this when I was eleven. I hate the beginning, but I think that it does pick up after a few minutes when I got into the spirit of writing, and it sort of gets quite deep. NOTE: I obviously never went to war, nor do I know a lot about it, so no offence meant if anything is incorrect. I tried my best and I was only eleven. The music is 'Omaha Beach' from Saving Private Ryan. The poem is too long for me to type it all out here so I'll only put a little bit of it: And the posters that called for him, That seemed to need him... The outstretched finger, Pointing, But really beckoning him to death, Showed none of the horrors That the battlefield would wield for the weak, And the strongest that find They have lost the strength to fight, When it is no longer clear What is to be gained. And the cruel, cruel wind Like the sharpened knife That kills Without spilling blood, Nor staining edge, Fights for neither side, Yet against both. And the earth that is blemished With the blood of the misled, trusting soldiers Is not the roof of Hell; How can she be? When Hell stands so mighty and cruel upon her No-Man's-Land, they call it, Where no living soul belongs, Only the sickening sight of the lonely corpses Of the men that never deserved to die, Out here In Hell. And the merciless wind whips at your hair; (Me mam were always tellin' me to cut it...) All these little, precious memories Come flooding back And draw the tears from your eyes, And make you cry out For Mam, for Pa, For the past, Or... For Death... And all around you, the putrid, rotting stench Of death, and bloody corpses that lie Abandoned In poppy fields with the dirt and the mud, With the rainfall of heaven's tears Upon their forms, These structures of death, To rinse away the sins. And the blood, dried Clinging to their frames Like a grotesque blanket For their deathbed, And though a place in heaven was promised Would the gates swing forth, really? Because you begin to doubt Even the Lord Himself When it appears that He has left your side. And the crude holes, Dug like wounds in the soil Are your only shelter From the death above, And the germs that feed off the blood in the cut Would be they, the soldiers, who forgot for what they fought; The parasites that cling to one another, Though they have let go of hope, In the darkness, Lying in the Earth's wounds. Trenches, They are named. And the dust and dirt littering them, Unavoidable, inescapable, So why does it matter to those about to die That their forms are plastered With the blood of the Earth? But trivial worries only Can filter through their closed, numb minds, That the angels of heaven Would think them too dirty to enter paradise, But turn them back, To the pits of hell, Or to life, Which differs not From Satan's hall. And the stone cold fear, the terror Of the charge, Across the vulnerable plains, Of No-Man's-Land... Running to doom. Why? Why? Why follow a trail littered with the bodies of the dead? Who had once laughed And smiled And spoken, And dreamed... And would he, too, Tortured by the thought alone, One day lie alone out there? Never wept over, Because tears shame a soldier... And the days until then, wasted, Spent slumped, In dark trenches, Spine bent to the familiar shape of the clay wall, But not broken, never broken... And head bent on bruised knees, Touching the raw, scabbed skin, Crusted by dirt, Hair trembling slightly, In the icy wind that pierces the trench, And stabs the skin, That is by now used to pain. And those dreams of glory, Of winning, Fade away in the darkness along with the life. And memories are buried, Because it hurts to remember... It's easier to forget, Who you are, Why you are here. (Less)