The Science of Freedom
For Joseph Beuys,1921-1986
The coordinates of history are the masters of fate:
Where and when we are born determine paths of destiny.
You were fascinated by art but worked as a circus acrobat.
You enrolled to study medicine but Hitler’s war came
And you volunteered to fly in the Luftwaffe.
Diving almost vertically from the skies
You were a rear gunner on a JU 87 Stuka bomber.
Plunging downward with accelerating speed,
The sirens on the wheels screaming terrifyingly in the wind,
Your plane descended on its targets, bringing devastation
And horror to distant lands and nations.
And then,
On a deadly mission in 1943,
Russian fire hit your plane
And you crashed in the Crimea,
The co-pilot killed.
You were severely injured
and say Tatars rescued you,
Covered your body with fat and wrapped it in felt
To keep you warm and so they saved your life.
You created a personal myth out of your wounds
A resurrection and the longing for warmth,
The yearning for caring human contact.
After the war, when you were released
From the British prisoner camp,
You went to study art in Düsseldorf.
You became a professor of sculpture fond of performance.
Once in 1965 walking in a gallery, your face covered
With honey and gold leaf, you held a dead hare
In your arms and explained to it the pictures.
For you, art was the science of freedom
A healing force capable of saving the planet.
In the last years of your life your hands planted
Seven thousand oaks in Kassel.
poem by Paul Hartal
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Related quotes
Yep, You Told Me
A plane crashed
Between Chicago and LA
It's all my fault
I didn't do the pre-check
I'm a bit shook-up
Oh Bea
You tried to warn me
You said, 'Young man,
This plane has got to crash
It don't have no pilot
It's running out of gas'
I said, 'Bea,
You just don't see
I'm flying this plane
And the gas will last'
But the engines started to putter
My mind began to flutter
As I held onto the wheel
If it had to smash
I'll die with it
That's the only thing I could see
Then I said,
'Wait a minute
what am I doing
I have to jump'
You know Bea
I'm an injured man
But I'm a living man
That's the way it should be
But the wounds will heal
Again I'll feel
And I don't know
Guess I'll have to see
poem by Roger Harkness
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The White Rose of Stalingrad
Her nickname was Lilya.
In the Great Patriotic War
When Hitler’s armies invaded the Soviet Union
She became a Soviet air ace,
Known as the “White Rose of Stalingrad”.
Lydia Litvak was born
Into a Moscow Jewish family.
In 1935, at the age of 14, she joined a flight club
And a year later she had her first solo flight.
When the Germans attacked Russia,
Lilya joined the Soviet Air Force.
In the summer of 1942 she was assigned
To the 437th Combat Regiment
Fighting over the skies of Stalingrad.
At first the men were reluctant
To take her seriously
But soon it became evident
That she was an excellent pilot.
Lilya was a pensive and beautiful young woman
Who got into trouble because of deviating from
The prescribed dress code of the Soviet Air Force.
Once she cut off the fur lined trim of her boots,
Producing from it a fur collar for her flight suit.
She was jailed for the offense.
Nevertheless, her desire for expressing
Her feminine individuality was irrepressible
And she continued to design
Her own military outfit.
Among other things she bleached her hair.
Military regulations permitted this.
And then she took pieces of parachute silk,
Sewed them together,
Painted them in different colors
And wrapping them around her neck
She created her own air combat fashion.
Lilya flew a Yak-1 fighter plane,
Which she embellished in painting white roses
On its sides. She made her first kills
Of enemy planes on September 13,1942,
Shooting down two Luftwaffe aircrafts,
A Ju-88 and a Bf 109 G-2.
The German flyer of the downed Bf 109
Was Erwin Maier, a decorated combat pilot.
He bailed out and parachuted
In Soviet-held territory. He asked his captors
To see the Russian ace that shot him down.
When the Soviets brought in Lilya,
Maier thought first that they made him the butt
Of a Bolshevik joke. But after Lilya showed him
Her flight maneuvers in the dogfight,
The German pilot’s disbelief turned
To surprised admiration.
Once, during a mission, Lilya was wounded
And she belly-landed in fascist-held territory.
German soldiers were rushing from every direction
On the field to catch her. She could see them
Running towards her with their weapons in hand.
Yet before they could take Lilya captive,
A Soviet aircraft appeared from the clouds
And landed next to her. Its pilot helped her climb
Onto his plane and took off as fast as he could
Under intense enemy fire.
On another occasion, in the course of air combat
Lilya was wounded in her leg but kept engaging
The Nazi aircrafts. She had whirled between
The enemy planes painted with black crosses
On their fuselage and the underside of their wings,
The swastika insignia hectoring on their tails.
She fired at the enemy aircrafts
With high explosive ammunition
From her 20 mm cannon
And 12.7 mm heavy machine gun
And at the end she managed to bring back
Her Yak-1 to base.
Lilya’s daring exploits included the destruction
Of a German observation balloon,
Which the Wehrmacht used
For artillery targeting against Red Army positions.
The hydrogen-filled balloon was protected
By an alignment of anti-aircraft guns that created
A deadly fire wall. The balloon flew high and far,
Out of the range of the Soviet artillery
And no Red Air Force pilot succeeded
To shoot it down.
Lilya volunteered to do the seemingly impossible.
First her commanders did not endorse the sortie
Because they regarded it as a suicide mission.
But Lilya devised a plan
Of approaching the balloon
From an unexpected direction, flying over
Enemy-held territory.
She succeeded to shoot it down.
August 1,1943, was another exhausting
And bloody day of the war.
Lilya already completed three sorties
But was sent again to take off with her squadron
And escort a formation of Ilyushin II-2 planes.
As the Soviets were returning from their mission,
two German Bf-109 fighters dived on Lydia’s Yak-1.
Her plane was hit. Smoke began to pour
From its fuselage.
The German pilots recognized the white roses
Painted on the aircraft and now as many as eight
Messerschmitt Bf-109 fighter planes joined
In pursuing the damaged Yak-1 plane
Of the Soviet ace.
She could not bail out.
Her plane crashed but did not explode.
Lilya was killed of a head wound.
She was twenty one years old.
Lilya shot down 12 enemy air planes in the war
And was the top scoring female fighter pilot
Of the Red Air Force. She and her close friend,
Katya Budanova, were the only two female aces
Of the Second World War.
In 1990 USSR President Mikhail Gorbachev
Posthumously awarded Lydia Litvak
The gold medal of the Hero of the Soviet Union.
poem by Paul Hartal
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K-Car
To the memory of the Rhodesian Helicopter Pilots and
the 20mm cannon Gunner.Two men one helicopter;
known as K-car…..Killer-car.
A formidable force in the Rhodesian Bush War.
RHODESIAN K-CAR
‘Chopper’ pilot calmness,
Cannon gunner’s skill,
Two minds in perfect harmony,
Flew in now for the kill,
Ten comrades in arms,
Pinned down by enemy fire,
Ambushed and compromised,
Their backs now to the wire.
One pilot and one gunner,
Men who knew no fear,
S.O.S. came through to them,
Urgent… but so clear,
“K-car, Call sign Bravo, ”
“Contact, contact, contact”!
Pilot with nerves of steel,
And veraciously exact,
“We have you visual, four o’clock”,
Crackled in the pilot’s ear
He responded calmly “Roger
Call sign Bravo… illuminate a flare”
Flare lit up and in they flew,
Oblivious of the danger;
Twas deaths turn to roll the dice,
With life their coin of wager.
Two hands upon the cannon grips,
One finger on the trigger,
Gunner’s eye took a site,
Through peep site to the jigger;
Bullets ripped into the cockpit,
Of that killer-car machine,
Barely two year out of school,
K-car gunner… aged nineteen
Fire Force airborne pilot,
Turned cannon to the smoke,
Gunner pressed the trigger,
And the dragon now awoke;
Twenty millimeter cannon,
Boomed forth volcanic life
Spewing deadly rounds,
Of instant death and strife.
No place for enemy to hide,
From this matchless opponent;
Terrorists now in full flight,
Were gunned down in a moment.
The Kill-car hovered overhead,
Just six foot off the ground,
Two enemy lay screaming,
But from thirty dead…no sound.
Most men of war, whom I knew then,
Have turned now to the Lord,
They have turned into plow shears,
Their weapons and their sword.
Lord please teach us here in Africa,
Love for one another;
Take xenophobic intolerance from us,
Teach us to love our brother.
poem by Alf Hutchison
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The Royal Air Force Hero and the Luftwaffe General
Britain fought for her life.
Hitler’s armies prepared
For an invasion of England.
Savage air battles took place
Over the skies of Albion.
Then a miracle happened:
In the summer and autumn of 1940
The Royal Air Force defeated
The numerically superior Luftwaffe.
This was a turning point in the war.
Lacking adequate air support,
The Fuehrer could not carry out
His invasion plans.
Deeply touched by the heroism
Of the pilots, Winston Churchill said:
“Never in the field of human conflict
Was so much owed by so many
To so few”.
Only three thousand young aviators
Defended the skies of England;
Among them scores of Jewish pilots.
The British ace pilot Robert Stanford Tuck
Was one of the outstanding Jewish heroes
Of World War II. He was born in 1917
And grew up in the Greater London district
Of Catford. In 1935 the 18-year-old Robert
Joined the RAF. During the war
He distinguished himself in the skies
Of Dunkirk and in the Battle of Britain.
A Flight Lieutenant and Wing Commander
With 92 and 257 Squadrons, Tuck became
One of the top ace aviators of the RAF,
Credited with 29 confirmed victories
Of downed enemy airplanes. Flying a Spitfire,
He had first engaged in aerial combat during
The Battle of France and claimed
His first plane kills over Dunkirk.
In September 1940,
As the Battle of Britain
Gathered momentum,
Tuck was promoted
To lead the 257 Squadron
Of Hawker Hurricanes.
He had an exceedingly eventful
Combat experience; was shot down
Four times, collided twice, crash landed,
Got dunked in the English Channel
And was wounded twice.
On an August day of 1940
Tuck was on patrol in his Spitfire
And got into a dogfight
With a Junker 88 over Kent.
His plane was hit by enemy fire.
He managed to bail out
While the aircraft crashed
On a nearby farmland.
Tuck found himself descending
with his parachute towards Plovers
In Horsmonden. He reached ground
On the estate of Lord Cornwallis.
The Lord was curious to see
The unexpected visitor.
He gave a warm welcome
To the vertically arrived guest
From the sky and then invited him
For a cup of tea.
One day in the winter of 1942
Tuck flew over northern France
Outside Boulogne when his airplane
Was hit by enemy flak.
He force landed and was captured
By the same German units
That he strafed just a short time earlier.
The Nazis knew very well
That Tuck was an ace pilot of the RAF.
General Adolf Galland himself came
To interrogate him.
One of the top pilots of Hitler,
The general was a war criminal.
He developed carpet-bombing tactics,
Which he tested during the Spanish Civil War.
He flew with the Condor Legion
Of the Luftwaffe and participated
in the terror bombing of Guernica.
By the way, the 1937 horrors
of that Fascist atrocity moved Picasso
to paint one of the grand cultural icons
of the 20th century, titled “Guernica”.
Now dissatisfied with the performance
Of his air force in the Battle of Britain,
Goering promoted Galland to the rank
Of Inspector General of the Luftwaffe.
When Tuck fell into Nazi hands,
Galland was curious to meet him.
The Luftwaffe general
Treated the British ace pilot with respect
And even provided him with a slap-up meal.
Tuck became a prisoner of war
But in February 1945
He succeeded to escape.
Walking eastwards he reached
The Soviet Red Army lines.
The Russians allowed him to travel
To Moscow where he showed up
At the British Embassy.
He returned to England via Odessa.
After the war, it was Tuck’s turn
To interrogate Galland.
Then a curious thing happened:
The former German Nazi
And the British Jew
Became close friends.
In celebrating the metamorphoses
Of a new era wherein former enemies
Turn into allies, Galland made Tuck
An honorary member
Of his old German flying squadron.
Tuck and Galland struck a lasting friendship
And instead of shooting at each other
They went together for game hunting.
Then the year of 1969 arrived
And they both accepted the role
Of serving as technical advisors
For the film of the Battle of Britain.
The war became a movie.
Robert Stanford Tuck died in May 1987.
A few days after his death an obituary
In The Los Angeles Times said that
Many consider Tuck “as the greatest
Spitfire pilot of all times”.
The article paid homage to the courage
Of the ace pilot who went to combat
Facing death in the eyes with the bravura
Of a guarded levity of the heart
Combining it with excellent technical aptitude
And sterling flying skills.
In 1940 the King personally awarded Tuck
With the Distinguished Flying Cross,
Stressing the aviator’s initiative
And personal example over Dunkirk.
During the war Tuck was also decorated
With the medal of the Distinguished Service Order.
The life of Robert Stanford Tuck affords intriguing
Insights into the strange peculiarities of wars
And the irrational nature of human conflicts.
It poses an array of inquisitive questions
regarding the historical context and futility
of organized violence, the unnecessary sufferings
and avoidable horrors that we humans inflict upon
Each other.
It also reveals some bizarre ironies
Of the Holocaust. After all, a friendship
Between a Nazi Luftwaffe general
And a Jewish ace pilot of the RAF
Stands out as a very odd alliance.
Yet human history offers
Countless bizarre stories.
poem by Paul Hartal
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That Someone Is You
While looking through
life's gallery of
pictures
I finially came across
an image, the face
I have dreamed of.
Planted so firmly in
my imagination
the one I could spend
my time
on this earth plane
with
that someone is you.
poem by Heather Burns
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This Isn't Everything You Are
He walked into a drugstore that day
He took a bullet and saved a girl
Not for heroic reasons
But to end his journey
His mum held his feet and prayed
with a hundred teardrops
Two thousand hands of a thousand angels
Performed CPR and with four thousand teardrops
Warmed his frozen body
God sits, turns his face and sheds a dropp or two
He lies alone in pitch darkness
The going had been tough
And he chose to get going
He dug a hole, lay and covered himself
Grace felt fat and took a stroll that day
He walked and smiled
Stepping on a heap of sand, he felt pain
Stooped and moved the sand
Turned his face and stared the turned teary face
Face to face they stared
The angels keep at it and look to God and grace
'There's joy not far from here', the angels echoed
He'd strayed, mum prayed, angels stayed
God came, breathed in him
Whispered and said, 'this isn't everything you are'
His heart beat, his mum smiled
Angels cried, God tried
To show him, all he was made to be
He cried, angels smiled
You are more than what you've been through
You are more than what you are today
And hope, though not bankable
Is the thread of life
And if you ever feel like walking away from it all
Keep this in mind:
THIS ISN'T EVERYTHING YOU ARE.
poem by Jenim Dibie
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Tea On The Lawn
It was foretold by sybils three
that in an air crash he would die.
"I'll fool their prophesy," said he;
"You won't get me to go on high.
Howe're the need for haste and speed,
I'll never, never, never fly."
It's true he traveled everywhere,
Afar and near, by land and sea,
Yet he would never go by air
And chance an evil destiny.
Always by ship or rail he went -
For him no sky-plane accident.
Then one day walking on the heath
He watched a pilot chap on high,
And chuckled as he stood beneath
That lad a-looping in the sky.
Feeling so safe and full of glee
Serenely he went home to tea.
With buttered toast he told his wife:
"My dear, you can't say I've been rash;
Three fortune tellers said my life
Would end up in an air-plane crash.
But see! I'm here so safe and sound:
By gad! I'll never leave the ground.
"For me no baptism of air;
It's in my bed I mean to die.
Behold yon crazy fool up there,
A-cutting capers in the sky.
His motor makes a devilish din . . .
Look! Look! He's gone into a spin.
"He's dashing downward - "Oh my God!" . . .
Alas! he never finished tea.
The motor ploughed the garden sod
And in the crash a corpse was he:
Proving that no man can frustrate
The merciless design of Fate.
poem by Robert William Service
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The Anglo Boer war
When that wimp of a Englishman
called Cecil John Rhodes
decided that he wanted gold,
that the diamonds in his pockets
was not enough
he wanted to see that British Union Jack flutter,
over the whole of Southern Africa
to his queen he went
to enchant her patriotic soul
to claim the Orange Free State
and Transvaal Republics as British territories
to sent three thousand
Christian farmers to their deaths,
to burn farmsteads down to the ground,
to throw salt in the lands,
to slaughter every animal there,
to murder twenty thousand women
and children
in concentration camps
and to loose twenty eight thousand
of the queen’s own as killed, as dead
shot through the heart, shot through the head.
[Note: My own great grandmother died in a British concentration camp and my great grandfather was sent by the British to St. Helena as a prisoner of war and as a result of this, my grandfather grew up in a orphanage.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Furor of Friendly Fire
The eye of day was closing.
It was dusk at Leyte Bay.
Twenty ships lay at anchor.
A low marine layer covered
The entire bay.
It was that time of evening
When it is difficult to discern
The difference between a wolf
and a dog, as the French say.
A Zero broke through:
Pulled back, up and out, Before
Any ship's guns could fire.
All gunner crews were taunt and tense,
Waiting.
Then, through the cover came
Another plane. This time,
A furor of fire broke loose.
It was dusk at Leyte Bay.
It was that time of evening
When it is difficult to discern
The difference between a Japanese Zero
And an American Torpedo Bomber.
Death shut the eye of day.
poem by Lynn W. Petty
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Come smile at me again
Come smile at me
come smile at me again.
And use the only smile you have,
the selfless and exquisite one.
And keep your eyes on me.
I'd like to study
the nuances of your smile.
Come look at me.
Come look at me again.
And use the only look you have:
The one of pure
Manuka Honey.
And keep your look on me.
I'd like to study
all the markings on your face.
Come close to me.
Come close to me again.
And hold your warm and tender body close to mine.
Come closer yet.
I'd like to study
YOU,
and hope to never graduate.
poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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A Nigthmare
i take the plane
at 2 a.m.
cebu bound, and
i dream that
the plane crashed
and that
we are all dead
our souls look
down upon our
torn flesh
some are burnt
unidentifiable
we are so silent
like stones without
winds
x x x x x x
the plane touches down
perfectly well
at the airport
silently we line up
to step out
from a nightmare that
i only know
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Capture The Moment
Snow on the hilltops
All night and day
There was snow
And the whiteness turned
In some places
With long steps
Tired steps
Of someone
Carrying
The burden of his life
Besides warm clothing
And some worn out shoes
Socks those were fuming
For the wet sock
Why not seek love in hills
Covered with snow
Why a beloved is not born here
And why there is not
A mad man of the snows
Snow is not as cold
There is intense heat inside
And the beloveds of the snow
Let’s sing for them tonight
Let’s tell them to lit heavy fire
Let those chimneys emit smoke
Smoke the symbol of hope
And the fire burning
The smell of baking food
And the sweetness of the beloved’s
Warmth
Let us invent a story of love
As the hills covered with snow
And the pine trees carrying the weight of snow
Bent down
And the distant houses
All covered with a thick white blanket
Sleeping
And some young girls
Making breads and hot tea for the loved ones
In the early morning
As more snow
Rains from the skies
poem by Sadiqullah Khan
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Life Immortal!
Nothing less, nothing more,
The flash of billion Galaxies,
The glowing stars,
Revolving planets,
Roaring rainy clouds,
The Sun, The moon, the Earth, Land and oceans,
Ice covered mountain to Sand
covered deserts,
Hot core and mantle of earth to
ice covered poles,
Made of elements, Energy manifesting in different
forms in different ways! One which lives has to change,
One who brings every thing to
life never changes
That remains mysterious,
as no signal can come from,
No signals can go from here, But that mysterious pervades all,
dwelling inside every thing and
enjoys everything without
enjoying,
Moving everything without
moving at all, Newton third law fails as action
and reactions balanced only on
this plane,
But valid on the plane where
everything is only one!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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Hope Hanging On At Heathrow
Like the last lonely leaf on the London plane,
I drive down, lonesome, up the long airport track,
Still hanging on, through the wind and the rain.
Will you still forgive me, if I just explain?
Will you come home to me? Will you fly back,
Like the last lonely leaf, on the London plane?
I never meant to cause you all that pain
That tears through your heart, bruising it black,
Still hanging on through the wind and the rain.
Do you believe, since my efforts are vain,
It is “THE END”, as in books, at the back
Like the last lonely leaf, on the London plane?
Though you ignore me, with haughty disdain,
You’ll find me waiting, despite your attack,
Still hanging on through the wind and the rain.
Half-hopes cling on; trust’s faint traces remain.
Determined, I stay, since I shall not crack,
Like the last lonely leaf on the London plane
Still hanging on through the wind and the rain.
poem by C. Richard Miles
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Life For Life
Internally old organism
Rejected its fetus
But occuring reactions won't allow
To tear out the bringer
Of human existence
Fight for life - what life,
Which one question
In great fulfilmnet life was created
To sacrifice - life for life...
Off happiness for human
Satisfaction left is
Impotence and emptiness...
And scattered human
Creation is being removed...
Save life - but what life,
Which one question piece by piece,
Effectively and carefully
Small head which was
Supposed to see the world
(to give happiness and
mother's devotion)
Inertly lies in the surgeon's hands -
A few stumps, closed and blood covered
Eye - lids, deadly grimace
Of the childish face...
Someone must stay life -
-But what for, why?
Emptiness will persist,
Nervous breakdown and fear...
Looking at the deadly fetus in all -
-Embracing inability
weeping won't help
in blood - life is taken away to rescue
(Another) life
and then...to forget (?) - life for life
Unforgettable grief...
song performed by by Yattering
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Kinder Eye
In his widowed years of longing, in his windowed room of light
He lay the oil upon the canvas, brought sweet memory to life
His speckled beard a brush of colour, his spotted hands both grace and speed
I was the boy who came with evening, to sweep his floors and bring his tea
To the world he was the master, his landscapes filled the gallery halls
But now he painted only portraits, unframed upon his private walls
Subjects sitting-walking-laughing in playful flight or soft refrain
A thousand forms and colours, but every face the same
Across the page (across the ages) the moving hand of history bleeds
... for a kinder eye to see us, not as we are, but as we dream
A winters night when I arrived there, he looked so tired and near the end
And as I cleaned his bench and brushes, I wished out loud to be like him
He said that art was only longing, trying to do what cant be done
And though hed signed a thousand paintings, still hed never finished one
As I finished up my sweeping, in his sleep he spoke her name
I looked again at all the portraits, each and every face the same
Not as she was in pain or sorrow, but in timeless beauty seen
As she served his noble dream
Across the page (across the ages) the moving hand of history bleeds
... for a kinder eye to see us, not as we are, but as we dream
song performed by by Level 42
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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They were taking pictures and everything. When we got down off the plane, the minute Elvis made his appearance at the door of the plane, the screaming got even worse.
quote by Minnie Pearl
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Wind Breeze
I am the Southern Breeze;
bearer of the Wisteria;
The North Wind
from where the ice blows.
I am the lover's caress
on sandy beach,
The Wind-Mill Corn Grinder
and the Water Wheel;
I am invisible
yet everywhere
I blow all over
this globe.
.
I've billowed your sails
propelled your ships
carried you
to far lands;
opened to you
new worlds.
True, too,
I have blown your houses down
tornadoed the things you love.
I am too
the wind of Bad Luck
and Ill Fate.
I am the wind in your lungs.
I carry the oxygen you breathe
first life's halting blush
and likely the last to leave
your body's chest.
Now my clear air
is grey
smoky
smoke-stacked
and my once proud
life of this planet
is near extinct.
Sixty miles;
just an hour's drive
of me and my oxygen
are your only shield;
against the void of outer space;
the cosmic rays,
the deadly magnetic fields
meteors and asteroids
all crash down were it
not for me;
the sun's infrared rays
would burn if I did not block.
for you and provide a cloak.
Indeed,
I am the life you breathe
from birth's first
to death's last.
You've felt me
on your face
riding the plains,
while walking the meadows;
remember I am
the Invisible Sea
you sail
and your final
Destiny.
I am the wind;
your oxygen.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Little Miracles
Two thousand years ago a man was born
Raised, and praised.
Little did anyone see- that he would
Change mans history.
Many miracles were created while he lived
To this world he had so much to give.
Miracles still happen to this day
And to him we do pray.
Little miracles here and there
That with the world we do share.
A person who walked away from a car on fire
Only thing left was a burning tire.
An abandoned newborn found on a frozen street
How he survived without any heat.
A single engine plane crashed into the ground
Two hundred feet away the pilot is found.
9/11 was a disastrous day
But we had people who had walked away.
People buried in a caved in mine
All were found and are doing fine.
These are the miracles of which I speak
They may not have been of astounding feats.
Unlike the parting of the waters
Where the Jews walked through in an uncivil disorder.
All of them were shedding some tears
But GOD wiped away all their fears.
In every country in the world
There are miracles happening every day.
Is it GODS hand? Who is to say!
But with FAITH, LOVE, and HOPE
People accept it and learn to cope.
poem by Louis Rams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Waterloo
Usher in the rally cries
Revolution's here again
The emperor's bond's are broken
And free he shall remain
Escape, though narrow, Was demand
While his reign remained in view
This fight for France, Till bitter end
He must see it Through
Coalition forms of many lands
Against Napoleon, West to East
Dogs of war will take to arms
And soon will be unleashed
Prussian, Russian, Austrian
All follow British lead
At allies' helm is Wellington
Who must make his Foe concede
Chorus
Foreshadowed man of destiny
Soon you will be force to see
Nations aligning against you
Marking the time your reign is through
...And you will see your hundred days
Come to an end
Foreshadowed man of destiny
Soon you will be forced to see
Nations aligning against you
Marking the time your reign is through
...It lies before you, fate shall befall you
Quickly, the allies gather force
Near the Franco-Belgian line
While 124,000 French
March there in double time
As the battle begins
Napoleon springs his audacious plan
He'll attack them on two fronts
Splitting up his warring Band
As the Prussians sound retreat
Behind they leave 12,000 slain
Most of their force is still in tact
And will live to fight again
Wellington, Who felt the loss of 5,000 men
Would feel more under cannon fire
Bombardment from the French
Repeat Chorus
Bridge
Of all the wars I have waged
To propel my nations might
For this I'll be remembered
From now 'till the end of time
If to the victor go the spoils
I may die an impoverished man
For in the end, Irony
Has dealt the cruelest hand
song performed by by Iced Earth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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