War poems analysis
Suicide in tranches:
He knew a good young boy, designated to became a soldier, who still laugh at life and live with carefreeness, he slept deeply alone in the safe darkness of his home and at the morning he woke up early.
Next, when he was in the trenches during winter, he was frightened and sad and he had to face with cramps , lice and food shortages; he couldn’t continue to bear it so he suicide himself. No one remembers him now (he didn’t die for homeland).
The enthusiastic crowd with eyes obfuscated by patriotism, who applaud watching young soldiers going to battle, can’t immagine what war really is and where those boys really go.
1914 V: The Soldier
If he would die in battle, he will ever remain in a foreign country. Since his body is there it’s like that part of the field would be England because he belongs to her. The ground where he died on became better because it conceals the soul of a great soldier (who died for his homeland).
England was his birth place, it was the land in which he grew up, he was educated and made conscious. England thought him love, offered her ways to tread (percorrere), washed him with her water, blest him with her sun.
The thought that he will be remembered by his homeland for ever shed away all the pain he suffered because it was the gratitude for what England had done for him; (His soul will be immortal for the country) he remembers all the good things of England, his nature and sounds, and, thinking about it gives him the possibility to come back home in dreams. Dying for his homeland he would reach peace in death and could stay in the English heaven.
Dulcet et Decorum Est
They were onto the sludge bent double on their knees, hidden under sacks as old mendicants and coughing as elderly woman, they inveighed until they saw blast’s glares and they turned themselves, beginning to crawl (strisciare) toward their last end (death). Soldiers marched unconsciously. Many of them had lost their boots but they continued to walk limping with blood-soaked feet. All of them were limping and everyone was blind; they were tired and they cannot hear even the tired distant grenades fallen behind them.
Gas! Gas! Quick boys! At this voice they were taken by terror and they began fumbling to fit the strange helmets just in time to not inhale the fumes; But someone in late continued to shout and stumble, struggling (dimenarsi) as he was in fire or constricted in lime. They were pales and, watching through the misty visor, he saw him drowning as under a green see (in the fumes).
Now he continues to see him in all of his nightmares, who is rushing toward him, guttering, choking, drowning before his helpless sight.
Reader (My friend), if in some of your most horrible nightmare you too could walk behind the wagon where they put him in and watch his white eyes twisting (contorcersi) in his deadly face, like a devil full of sins; if you too could hear his blood gurgling at every tremor from his sick lugs, horrific as cancer, bitter as the vomit of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues (soldiers sent to battle by someone else), you wouldn’t have such enthusiasm to tell the old lie “Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori” (Die for the homeland is sweet and honorable) to children impassioned (affascinato, entusiasmato) by futile glory.